


Weeds

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Derogatory Language, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Possible Internalized Homophobia?, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prison, Prison Sex, Reese and Finch are So Married, Reese is scary, Threesome, WIP, crackfic, domestic work, epic misunderstandings to comedic effect, houseboy, in another universe, maybe prostitution, money for sexual activities, porn farce, queer tropes, your life choices lionel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 100,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a very-decidedly AU POI fic that came out of a crack chat with a friend: what if Lionel Fusco was somebody's houseboy? </p><p>There is a lot of power imbalance in this fic, as well as references to sexual acts done for purposes of survival in prison. While the prison stuff is not the focus of the fic, it is there, and it may not be to everyone's tastes. Read tags, know your comfort levels, blah blah blah. </p><p>All of that said, this is actually meant as ridiculous crack-fic rather than a realistic exploration of things like the prison justice system or anything else, so take it with a grain of salt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



Carl was lying on his bunk, texting on a cell phone that was definitely not on the list of Approved Items _._ Fusco wondered which guard had brought him the phone, what Carl had offered to make it worth his while. Not that it mattered. Carl always had everyone's price: whatever it was, whatever you wanted, Carl could make it happen. Carl had a blind cell, and Carl had all the privileges he wanted.

He came to a stop outside the cell's open door, leaning on the bars. "Hey."

The hand holding the phone drooped, and Carl smiled at him. "Lionel. So. You're on your way out?"

He stared despite himself, then gave a nervous laugh, ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, looks that way. Jesus, Carl, I just came from the fucking board, how'd you know so soon?"

Carl only smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling in a fond, patronizing fashion, like the uncle who wouldn't tell six-year-old you how he'd pulled that quarter from behind your ear. "You know me, Lionel; I like to be well-informed."

The other man tucked away the phone between the mattress and the wall, and sat up on the bunk. "I admit it, I'm sorry to see you go. But for your sake, I'm happy for you. Good luck back in the world, yeah?"

Fusco puffed up his cheeks with air, let it out in a slow exhale. It didn't feel real yet. "Yeah."

Carl nodded, as if he knew what Fusco was thinking. "If you ever need any help getting back on your feet... I can drop a line, get you some assistance...?"

 _No way in hell._ "Yeah. Sure. I'll keep it in mind. Thanks."

"You do that."

"And, uh... thanks for... you know. Everything."

"Oh, it's been my pleasure." Carl ducked his head with a modest smile, then stood up and offered him a hand to shake. Fusco hesitated, then took it. The gesture felt weirdly formal. They were silent a few seconds. Fusco thought this had to be the most fucking civil farewell to your prison daddy in the history of being butched in.

Carl cleared his throat. "Perhaps before you go-- something to remember me by?"

What the fuck was one more time, right? In twenty-four hours he'd be breathing free air again.

"Yeah, sure, man," Lionel said, and dropped to his knees.

 ***

He stood in the processing room feeling-- nothing. Feeling detached from his body, standing there empty and blank while they handed him the things that had been taken from him one year, ten months, and three weeks ago.

 _Personal effects._ Here were his shoes, his belt, his pager (battery long dead), his wallet, his wristwatch. He stared at the little plastic bag, waiting to see the other bits of his old life returned to him: _badge_ and _duty sidearm,_ which, of course, were not forthcoming.

'Course not. Not now, and not ever again.

He was wearing a pair of new-but-too-long jeans and a T-shirt, purchased from the commissary, release clothes so he didn't go back in the world in blues. Fusco took his time putting on his belt, his wristwatch, his shoes. He hadn't thought to buy socks. Stupid.

Janet was waiting for him, outside the high walls, in the parking lot. She hadn't brought Lee. He was okay with that. He wanted to see his son again, wanted it bad, but he didn't want Lee to see him coming out of prison, in shoes-with-no-socks.

The sun bounced off the sidewalks and then went for his eyes. Things seemed too bright, too sharp around the edges. He opened the car's passenger door and there was Janet, staring at him with both her hands on the wheel.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she said, her lips a small line, an answering line drawn between her brows. She looked the same as she always had. He wondered what he looked like to her.

They'd been divorced four years, way before he'd gone into prison, but he was suddenly nearly overcome with the helpless wish that they weren't. That his wife was here instead of his ex, that someone outside might be happy to see him, that she could at least give him a smile, a hug, give him the grin of the early years and say, _Jesus, don't I even get a thank you for picking your ass up, champ?_

"Thanks for the ride," he said, since she deserved that, she sure as hell didn't have to come pick him up.

"Yeah," she said. She was silent a few seconds, staring ahead through the windshield at the entrance to the prison, then she said, "Lee's at a summer camp."

He blinked. "Oh. Oh yeah?"

"Yes. It's through our, my, church. He's... riding horses, and learning how to canoe, in upstate New York. He won't be home for a few weeks."

He looked from her set face to the windshield too, to the hard glaring white of the sidewalk outside. After a number of slow, shallow breaths, he asked, "Did you tell him I'm out?"

"Not yet," Janet said, and she turned the key in the ignition. "Where to?"

"I don't know," he said, and stared out at the parking lot, and wiggled his bare toes inside his shoes.

***

Three days after he got out, Stills came by.

He was still at Janet's, sleeping on the couch (she wasn't thrilled about it, either, but he could read the set of her mouth and knew he had three, four more days before she put her foot down). He peered through the peephole and saw Stills outside, hands in his pockets, chewing gum.

He didn't want to open the door. He had nothing to say to Stills.

But it was Janet's apartment; it was where his son lived. If he didn't deal with it now, Stills would come back. Some time when Lee wasn't at camp.

Fusco opened the door.

Stills smiled at him, slow grin breaking, arms spreading wide. "Heyyyy! There he is. My _man."_

Fusco punched him.

Once. To get the point across. To the gut, not the jaw. He put his hips into it, for some power, a tight boxer's swivel and his fist corkscrewing up from his hip to plow in and double Stills over.

Stills staggered back, bumped into the hallway wall and came up with hands raised to block a second hit, but Fusco just stood in the doorway, watching.

"Jesus," Stills wheezed. "The _fuck_ was that for?"

"You know what that was for."

Stills straightened slowly, rubbing at his gut, licking at his lips, the smile gone. "Yeah. Guess I do."

Fusco gave him nothing. His face was a wall. He had stared at the cell wall and learned how to mimic it, how to let that blankness flow back into him, how to be empty. He wasn't even angry. He wasn't anything at all. Anger had been two years ago, being tossed to the DA because there was blood in the water and some small fish had to be sacrificed. Anger had been replaying all of Stills' promises ( _Lionel, buddy, you know I'll never let anything happen to us. Lionel, man, anything ever goes wrong? HR's got our back)_ until they were just words, until they meant the nothing that they had always meant.

He wasn't angry anymore. Now he was just making sure Stills understood him.

Stills studied him, then looked away. "Fuck, man. That's how it's gonna be?"

"Yup."

"Don't be that way, asshole. We still got a place for you. You never ratted us out: upstairs knows that. Loyalty like that? They want you _back_ , man."

He shook his head. "No. No way. I'm done. You let them know that. I didn't talk; I took the fall like you wanted me to-- I _did_ my time for HR. But now I'm out. You tell them that. You tell 'em I fucking deserve that."

"Lionel..."

"You _tell them,_ Stills. You fucking owe me that. I don't wanna see you again."

Stills rubbed at his chin, took a deep breath. He nodded.

From the mouth of the stairwell, Stills turned back. "So what are you gonna do now, then, genius? If not us, who?"

"I don't know," Fusco answered, but he waited to do it until Stills was out of earshot.

***

It was a complicated question, that. The conditions of his release included that he had to get a job-- which he had to do anyway, Fusco had never been able to handle too much downtime, in prison he'd volunteered for all the work shifts he could just to have something to busy his hands with, something mindless and simple so he could sweat out the thoughts and not sit in his cell with them.

But yeah, he had to _get a job,_ and while there were positions out there for an ex-cop (private security firms, PI work, mall rent-a-cop), they were not positions for people with criminal records, people who'd been convicted, people who'd done time.

He was surprised to discover he still had pride: he'd never thought of himself as _proud_ in any particular sense, and certainly not after doing time, not after getting down on his knees before Carl Elias in order to survive prison, not after scrubbing the toilets just to have something to do, but all the same he apparently still had an ego, somewhere, somehow it had survived.

It was hard on his ego, to go from having been a _detective,_ a person with a badge and a gun and a skill set, to realize that he was re-entering the labor pool at forty-six years of age with a skill set that meant jack shit, because no job that could use his skills was going to hire him.

Flipping burgers with pimply teenagers? _Fuck_ no. Gas station attendant? Could do worse. Entry-level retail? Yeah, he could compete with every damn kid getting ready to look for a summer job.

Fusco was no longer sleeping at Janet's place. He had a bed at the YMCA. Bottom bunk of a twofer. The other guy was a white kid with dreads and a rastacap who'd offered him pot and tried to convince him of the merits of a vegetarian lifestyle.

The doors had no bars. Fusco wandered around the building a lot, to remind himself he could, and the rest of the time he spread newspapers on the common room's table and went through with a pen.

_EXETER REALTY IS LOOKING TO HIRE AND TRAIN..._

_Salesman wanted for moving company..._

_Wanted: HAIRDRESSER, 1 yr Salon experience req'd..._

_OWNER/OPERATOR Truck Drivers needed_

_Bilingual in Chinese? Mandarin translator needed for..._

_Electrician contractor opening, own tools required..._

His record had a conviction for money laundering and extortion. It ruled out most of the more respectable shit, anything with a background check. He sure as hell didn't have a full set of tradesman's tools, or five years' experience at installing cabinetry.

His work experience, Fusco realized morbidly, was suited to about two things: preventing crimes, or committing them. And the good guys didn't want him no more.

Elias would have something for him to do, sure. All he had to do was get in touch.

He kept looking.

Restitution fines had cleaned out most of what little had been in his bank account. He still had his car, at least-- out-of-tune, in need of an oil change, it had been parked for two years-- so that gave him flexibility, he could look further afield than just the City. Maybe a delivery job? Courier? Shit. Fusco flipped the paper over and stared blankly at the lines of tiny, cramped text through his reading glasses. Everything was all abbreviations, these days, acronyms whose meaning he didn't know but if he didn't know what they meant then it was probably some sort of certification he didn't have.

Take this one, for instance:

_HB wanted for domestic work – lawn – yard – cleaning – dog walking – sundry for retired couple. You should be: 18 – 30, GM, clean, polite, reliable, vers sub, discreet, w/ own transportation. Position is NLI, for 5 days a week (days negotiable). WE not required but bonus. DP not required but bonus. No BB. No parties. Compensation TBD @ interview. Contact h_finch@gmail.com._

Fusco stared down at it dully, wondering what WE stood for. His brain was still on the contractor jobs. Welding Expertise? Nah, not for Mr. and Mrs. Retired-with-a-poodle. Windows... E... e...rased? Work Equipment? Watering Expected?  
  
Not like it mattered. He was too old for the job. Hey, wasn't there some law in New York about age discrimination in the workplace? Heh.

He chuckled a little, put the paper to one side. Then thought about it and looked again. Okay, sure, he was past thirty, but... cleaning, mowing the damn grass, cleaning out rain gutters and shit? He could do that. He could easily deal with a poodle, or whatever. And the own-transportation thing might mean that the high-school kids wouldn't jump on this. The fact that they were asking for someone over eighteen meant they didn't want high-schoolers anyway, they wanted someone _reliable,_ like the ad said, so maybe he could make a case for himself as maturely responsible, and all that.

Fusco rubbed at his jaw, then shrugged. He jotted down the e-mail address on a notepad, and got up to see if the YMCA's computer station was free.

After all, it was not like he had anything to lose.


	2. Chapter 2

 

> _To:_ _h_finch@gmail.com_
> 
> _From: fusco2007_ _@yahoo.com_
> 
> _Subj: Job position?_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Finch,_

Fusco stopped, squinted at the screen. He didn't actually know if this was Mr. Finch, he realized. It could be the missus. And 'Dear Mr Finch' sounded really weird and formal. He hit delete, started over.

> _Sir or madam_ ,

Shit no, that was worse, it was like something out of sixth grade where they tried to teach you how to write a business letter. Delete, delete, delete. Just... just go for natural, that was all.

> _Hello,_

There, much better. Fusco stuck out his tongue as he hunted and pecked along the keyboard.

> _I saw your newspaper ad and I am interested._

Good start. Now what?

> _I have my own car and I am a hard worker. I have a lot of experience cleaning_

"--up dead bodies," Fusco whispered at the screen, "and also, toilets--"

> _and working outside. I am older than your ad said but I have a work ethic unlike kids today._

Too braggy? Fusco stared at the line on the screen, chewing on his lower lip, then let it stand.

> _My schedule is wide open for an interview if you would like to meet. Thank you for your time. Sincerely,_
> 
> _Lionel Fusco_

He re-read it. Didn't see any typos. It sounded, he thought, really polite and professional. He hit send.

He got an e-mail back within three minutes, before he'd finished clearing out some of the accumulated junk mail from his inbox. Fusco blinked, then clicked on it.

> _To:_ _fusco2007@yahoo.com_
> 
> _From:_ _h_finch@gmail.com_
> 
> _Subj: Re: Job position?_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Fusco,_
> 
> _We appreciate your honesty. We would like to interview you. Are you free tomorrow, two o'clock?_
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Harold Finch_

So it was Mr. Finch, then. Fusco stared at the screen, wondering it it was gonna be that easy. Of course, the pay wasn't likely to be great, not for chumping around raking up leaves and stuff, but... it was a start. He needed to do something, even it was just bringing in enough cash to keep his bottom bunk bed, until something better materialized-- he had to show something to his parole officer, down the road, and if he ever wanted to see Lee under any circumstances other than a supervised visit, he needed to show that he was working, he was making the effort.

He typed out a reply.

> _Mr. Finch,_
> 
> _Yes, I can meet whenever is good for you. I'm in Brooklyn, but wherever you want to meet up is okay by me._

This time, the reply was even quicker.

> _Excellent. Spolem Cafe?_ _ 6630 Fresh Pond Rd _ _._
> 
>   _Please dress professionally. We'll have our dog with us, so we should be fairly easy to spot._
> 
>   _Bring any references you may have. We look forward to meeting you._

 He clicked through to the link, which was a map-- huh, the 'Spolem' place was maybe a mile or two from him, not far, that was good-- and then he typed a quick response.

> _I'll be there. Thanks for your time._

Fusco hit send, and waited a few more minutes, but no more responses came. He swiveled back in the chair, trying not to feel too excited-- it was a fucking yardwork job-- but... it was a prospect. It was a start. It was _something._

He puffed his cheeks up with air then let it out slow. He'd need interview clothes. And he should keep looking through the paper, cuz this probably wouldn't pan out-- he needed back-ups- but one thing at a time.

Someone else was waiting to use the computer. Fusco logged out and headed for his room.

***

"I think Lionel's a nice name, don't you?"

 "Hnh."

"Oh, don't be that way, John."

 "It's a security risk. I don't like it."

 "I'm _aware_ of that. But, frankly, if you think I'm going to let you try to do the yardwork again anytime soon... I should never have let you up on that ladder to begin with."

 "I'm _fine,_ Harold."  
  
"Spare me. Anyway, I think it'll be nice to have someone else around. A little indulgence and variety can be good for a relationship, you know. Oh, here's a picture-- oh, hmn."

 " ' _Hmn'_ , what?"

 "Oh.... he's... not quite what I'd expected. Lovely curly hair, though."

 "…you're really just doing this to make me jealous, aren't you."

 "Don't be silly. Let's see what our background check turns up... ah. Hmn. Oh."

 " _'Oh' ?_ "

 "Ah. Yes. It appears that Mr. Fusco has quite the interesting.... life story."

 "Let me see tha-- wait, _what--_ convicted of-- Harold, we are _not_ hiring him. ...Harold. _No."_  
  
"I told him we'd meet with him already! We at least have to go through with the interview."

 "We don't _have_ to do anything. Cancel it. He's a plant _."_

 "You have absolutely no proof of that."

 "Finch. He's _HR_."

 "The man has paid his debt to society, _John,_ and if he were a plant by HR then he certainly wouldn't have given me his real name, now would he? I'm not going to cancel the interview. That would be terribly rude. He at least deserves a chance. Like a certain somebody else I could mention deserved a chance, once upon a time."  
  
"…dirty pool, Finch."

 "I play to win, Mr. Reese."

 "Fine. Fine. We'll interview him. But I'm bringing my guns."

"When do you _not?"_

***

 Fusco was wearing a polo shirt and khakis. They were new to him, not new-new, but you could get decent stuff second-hand. A lot of his stuff was still in storage, and anyway, a suit didn't seem like what you wore to an interview for yardwork.

 The khakis were a little wrinkled. He tried not to be worried about that.

 The café was close, homey, tables of red wood, artsy crap on the white walls. Two in the afternoon, it wasn't too busy. Fusco took a deep breath inside the door and looked around for an old couple.  
  
College kid, knitting mom, college kid, businessman on a laptop, another businessman looking past him to the door, a twenty-something couple getting coffee, and--  
  
Orange drew his eye back. Bright orange, a service dog's vest, and he blinked, stared, resolved the vest, the significance, the dog it was wrapped around-- _big fucking dog,_ German shepherd? Something like that-- sitting at the feet of the second businessman and this time Fusco realized the man was not staring through him, he was staring _at_ him, with a look that said, _I could probably feed you to my dog if I tried._

 For a second he was _back_ in prison, because the closest reference he had for that look was being new to the joint and pissing off the wrong motherfucker, getting that cold uncaring look across the width of the cafeteria that said the viewer was weighing how much trouble it'd be to kill you.

 He stood there, rooted, breathing shallow-- for no good _reason,_ no good _reason,_ Jesus _Christ,_ this was a coffeeshop, not fucking gang turf. He was having a post-prison freak out, or something, projecting or some bullshit shrink word like that. The guy didn't know him from Adam. The guy had no _reason_ to be looking ice-blue murder his way. It was just some motherfucking guy in a suit in a coffeeshop.  
  
Get a _hold_ of yourself, Fusco.

 Someone said 'excuse me' from behind him and he realized he was blocking the doorway. He mumbled an apology, stepped the rest of the way inside, and he rubbed his sweaty palms against his khakis and came to reluctant terms with the fact that nobody else in the coffeehouse had a dog with them.

 The guy with the dog was still looking directly at him. His expression hadn't changed.

 There was a part of him that would have liked to leave, right then. There was a part of him that was pretty sure that if he turned around and just _went,_ nothing more would come of this. There were other jobs. He'd find something. Sure. Yeah.

 Lee was getting home in two weeks. He wanted to see his son. Somewhere other than at the Y.

 He licked his lips, and wiped his palms on his trousers, and moved for the table.

 So, okay, so, so he'd made some assumptions based on the ad: he was not looking at Mr. and Mrs. Finch who-own-a-poodle. He was looking-- yep, double-check, verify-- he was looking at two _guys_. Great. Great. Fanfuckingtastic, he was interviewing with Siegfried and Roy.

 There was the cold-staring man with the big dog, who was what, in his forties? Couldn't be older than Fusco himself. He was definitely taller, but then, most guys were. He was good-looking, Fusco thought, distantly, not with any sort of attraction but just an observation, guy looked like a clothes model or something, he was the pretty-boy in the relationship, apparently-- except for that dead stare. As Fusco got closer he could see there was a crutch leaning against the wall, and the guy had one leg in a cast, propped up on a chair.

 Oh. Good. He could probably outrun the guy, if he needed to.

The other guy, his life partner or what-the-fuck-ever, was older, maybe 50s? 60s? Glasses, looked like a professor or some shit-- fancy suit with the vest and everything, weak chin, big nose. He didn't look up from his laptop as Fusco came closer, not until his boyfriend reached across the table and touched his hand.

 He turned to look at Fusco, not his neck, but with his whole body. Watery eyes peered at Lionel from behind thick lenses.  
  
Fusco plastered a smile to his face and stopped several feet back from their table, and the dog.

 "Mr. Finch?" he said, guessing that was the little guy, because he was on the laptop. Also he didn't really want to address words at the other guy.  
  
Mr. Finch smiled: polite, friendly, non-threatening. "Mr. Fusco," he said. "Thank you for meeting with us."

 Right. He could do this. He _had_ this. The little guy wasn't scary, and fuck, for all he knew maybe the big guy was on pain meds for the leg, or something; maybe that wasn't an _I want to murder you_ look so much as an _I'm sort of middle-distance-staring at everything today_ look. Yeah. Sure.  
  
Finch had a hand out, so Fusco shook it.  
  
"--and this is my partner, John Reese--"  
  
Mr. Reese didn't offer to shake. Fusco was fine with that. He flashed the smile at him, short and strained, a prison-smile: _I'm not a threat, buddy, I'm not worth it, I'm not gonna give you any trouble at all,_ although he still had no idea what he'd done to deserve an incoming shiv.

 "Won't you have a seat, Mr. Fusco?"

 He said he would. He said _no thanks_ to the offer of coffee, and he clasped his hands in his lap as he sat in the chair he'd drawn up for himself at the end of the table and kept firmly smiling.

 "You should introduce Bear," said Mr. Reese, in a soft, dispassionate voice.

 "Oh, right, of course-- this is our dog. Bear, _bewaken."_  
  
The dog sat up. Fusco looked from Mr. Reese, to the dog, to smiling, oblivious Mr. Finch, and slowly extended his hand to be sniffed. Nice doggie. Please don't bite my hand off, nice doggie.

 It occurred to him that an awful lot of his life had involved a similar sentiment, over the years.

 Thankfully the dog did not bite his hand off. The dog sniffed at his hand, snorted, gave him a brusque lick-- Jesus, those were some teeth-- then settled down again at Mr. Reese's feet with his pink tongue lolling. Mr. Finch beamed around the table as if this were all cozy and fucking heart-warming.

 "Well, then. You're sure you won't have a coffee, Lionel? --I'm sorry, may I call you Lionel?"  
  
"Sure," he said thickly, pulling his hand back into his lap, and away from dog teeth. "Lionel's fine. Whatever you'd like. And really, no coffee, I'm good."

 Mr. Finch bobbed his head in a nod that was, in fact, kind of bird-like. "Alright.

 "So, Lionel... John and I live out of the city, in Oyster Bay. Up until recently, John was rather stubbornly doing most of the groundskeeping on his own, but there was an Incident with a Ladder--" (he could hear the capital letters, but at least it got the other guy's gaze off him and into a sideways glare at his boyfriend) "--and so we've decided to open our home, as it were, to an extra pair of hands."

 Mr. Finch looked at him expectantly. Fusco thought: _Oyster Bay, Jesus_. He'd driven out through there (for reasons he didn't want to really remember right now): it was money, money, mo-neeey. _Rich_ motherfuckers. Big-ass homes.

 "Yeah," he said, "I get you. Well, as I said in my e-mail, I don't shy away from hard work, Mr. Finch, uh, sir. You want the, uh, the hedges trimmed, the lawn mowed, pool cleaned, whatever-- I'm your man."

 Mr. Finch smiled and nodded again, like he felt Lionel needed fucking encouragement or something. He tapped his fingers on the table and Fusco could hear his trimmed nails, click-click-click. Finch cleared his throat, lightly, and asked, "And the other things discussed in the advertisement?"

 He scrambled mentally back to the ad. Dog walking. Cleaning. Sundry. None of that was a problem. As for the acronyms he didn't know, he figured he could learn on the job. There was something his old man had told him once, about some of the only advice he could ever remember getting from him: _Someone ever wants to know if you can do something for a job, you tell 'em yes sir, I sure can--_ _then_ _you go out and fuckin' learn how to do it._

 He sat up straighter in the chair, tried to look like the sort of guy who could do whatever fancy motherfucking gardening was required out in Oyster Bay.  
  
"I can do whatever it is you gentlemen want," he said earnestly. "I'm not picky, sir."  
  
Mr. Finch looked at his boyfriend. The boyfriend was staring back at Fusco, brows arched above those cold, distant eyes. He didn't look impressed. Fusco didn't need his detective training to guess that John was not happy about any of this, that this had been _Finch's_ idea-- that Reese was not too crazy that his sugar-daddy, or whatever, was hiring someone to come in and do what he couldn't.

 The boyfriend leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. He gave Fusco a _look,_ head to toe, taking in the slope of his shoulders, his gut, his wrinkled khakis, the thrift-store shirt, then back up to his face again.  
  
"You work hard, Lionel?"  
  
He took a slow, deep breath, twitching between reflexive fear and reflexive anger. Goddamn _bullies,_ just like in the joint. He was tempted to shove his hands in the fucker's face, show him the the calluses from two years doing road crew, bathroom janitorial, scrubbing dishes.

 "I work hard."

 Reese's mouth lifted. Not really a smile. "You don't look like much."

 Mr. Finch _jerked,_ his chair scraping on the floor, and a second later Reese twitched too. Fusco blinked. Mr. Finch glared at Mr. Reese, and Fusco realized that he had just kicked his boyfriend under the table.

 Well, Fusco thought with a laugh he knew way better than to let hit the air, it wasn't like the fucker had to worry about being _replaced._ The thought did hit him, though-- if this was just because Reese couldn't do the work with the broken leg, was the job going to go away when the guy healed?  
  
"I, ah, I did have a question though--" Finch stopped glaring at his boyfriend, looked back to him, gestured for him to speak, "--would this be... an on-going position, or--"

 " _No_ ," growled Mr. Reese, and, "Yes," said Mr. Finch, at the exact same time. They looked at each other. Fusco decided to be polite and stare at the street while they had their lovers' spat.

 It was short, and quiet, and Mr. Finch won. Reese might have been the bigger guy, but it was clear to him who was bitch and who was butch, here.

 Mr. Finch turned back to him with a fixed, determined smile. "I'm sorry about that. As I said, on-going, although of course in winter hours may go down as the yardwork becomes less of a priority... anyway, that's months away, isn't it? I was considering a trial period to see how we're all getting along with each other, at first? Perhaps two weeks, and then we'll see where we stand?"

 Two weeks. Two weeks until Lee. "Two weeks sounds great."  
  
"Splendid." Mr. Finch took a sip from his teacup. "Perhaps we should discuss compensation, then. As mentioned in the ad, this is not a live-in position--"

 (Oh, yeah, maybe that was the _NLI_ thing. Great. He was talking to the sort of rich motherfuckers for whom _maids_ and _gardeners_ were supposed to live on the grounds, like Victorian fucking England or something. Culture shock.)

 "—so, since room & board are not part of the arrangement, I was thinking an hourly wage to start with, and if we're all satisfied with one another after the trial period, we can discuss a salary, instead?"

 He nodded (sure, whatever); Mr. Finch went on. (Reese stared darkly at the wall.) "For the trial period, perhaps forty dollars per hour?"

 He stared. He was glad he hadn't taken him up on the coffee offer, because he might have done a spit-take.  
  
Finch fidgeted a bit. "--I do realize, of course, that it's a bit of a commute out to Oyster Bay-- I suppose we could also perhaps factor in a gas allowance, if the hourly rate isn't satisfactory--"

 "No," he said, voice coming out in a little bit of a croak. "No, uh, no, forty an hour is... that'd be.. fine. That's just fine. I honestly, I'm not really sure what the, the going rates are for work like this."  
  
He thought Reese snorted, but he was keeping his eyes on Mr. Finch, who looked relieved and smiled brightly. "That does actually bring me to my next question: work experience. You said you had a lot of experience working outside-- any references?"

 _Sure, the New York State prison system._ Fusco put his own hand over his mouth just in case it was tempted to say that out loud.  
"...not as such," he said through his fingers.

 Mr. Finch clasped his hands together on the table, regarded him attentively. "Who was your last employer?"

 Fuuuck. It was a reasonable, expected question, but somehow he hadn't expected it. So. Truth or lie?

 If he hadn't just had the prospect of forty bucks an hour dangled in front of him, he thought, it'd be easier to go for the truth, to be like, _okay, so here's the deal..._ and let the chips fall where they would. It had been easier to write off the job as something he wasn't going to get, before he'd known they were willing to pay _that much_ to have their fucking lawn mowed.  
  
"Technically, the New York City Police Department," he said after a few seconds. "But I've been out of work for a little while."

Mr. Finch's bright, curious expression didn't flicker. Lionel did not look at the other guy's face-- he kept his eyes on Mr. Finch. "Oh, really? Were you doing maintenance work for the police?"

 "Yeah, something like that," he said with another forced smile. There were a few beats of silence. Reese lifted his coffee cup and took a slow, deliberate sip, then set it down just as pointedly.

 Fusco had the feeling there was a conversation going on here that he was not privy to. The feeling was reinforced when Mr. Finch gave him a small, precise smile after those several seconds and then turned to shut down his laptop.  
  
"Well, Mr. Fusco, as I said, thank you for meeting with us. We're going to see what other applicants we get, but we'll be in touch..."  
  
"Wait."

 They both looked at him, heads turning synchronized. He darted a glance at the boyfriend, but there was nothing encouraging there, the guy's face was a wall of stone with chips of ice for eyes-- he looked back to Mr. Finch, whose brows were arched above his glasses, waiting, waiting.

 "I've... I've been out of work because I made some mistakes. I've been trying to get my life back on track. I _do_ work hard, and I'll do whatever it is you guys need, whatever you _want,_ I don't care how dirty I get-- I'm not proud, alright? I'm not gonna turn my nose up. I'd do the work for half of what you're offering. But I really need a job."

 Mr. Finch's face was a study in blankness, his lips pursed in a small moue. Reese was getting to his feet-- collecting his crutches, grabbing his coffee mug. Fusco squirmed in his chair, ran a hand through his curly hair with desperation prickling at his skin.

 "Look. Look, just give me a shot, yeah? I know I don't got references for you, I'm older than you wanted, and you're right, I don't fu-- I don't look like much-- but gimme a chance. Please. You won't be disappointed."

 Mr. Finch looked at Mr. Reese. Mr. Reese looked back at Mr. Finch. The dog got to its feet, yawning wide.

 "We'll be in touch, Mr. Fusco," Mr. Finch said again, softly, dismissively, absolutely.

 He sat, in his second-hand clothing, and he watched them leave, both of them limping, with the dog trotting at their heels.


	3. Chapter 3

"Your interviewing persona leaves something to be desired, _John_."

"I don't like being lied to, _Harold."_

"Mr. Fusco wasn't... he was not, technically speaking, _lying_ to us _,_ so much as he was... withholding information."

"Ah. So, lying how _you_ lie."

"…unfair, Mr. Reese."

"What was that you said yesterday, something about _playing to win_?"

"Tsk. John. Suppose you tell me what's bothering you."

"I think I kind of have, Harold."

"I'm sorry. I meant to say, what's _really_ bothering you."

"…"

"…"

"…or not, we can certainly sit in silence all the way back home."

"…go ahead and hire him."

"You're simply saying that to try and make me happy, Mr. Reese."

"Yes. I am."

"…that's not exactly why I proposed a houseboy, you know. It's for both of us, and it's to make things easier on you."

"Yeah, because taking away one of the few goddamn things I can still _do_ makes things easier on me."

"...oh, John. John, my dear, you know that isn't my intent, don't you? --John, please look at me. Thank you. John, I think that having someone else around besides just-- me-- is going to help you. I mean that. It's not... it's not _good_ for you, to have so few... outlets."

"Mmm. Bear gets chew-toys, I get fuck-toys?"

_"John."_

"Alright, alright... two weeks?"

"Two weeks, yes. Please. Indulge me."

"When don't I, Harold?"

***

Fusco went back to the drawing board. He told himself it didn't matter; he hadn't really expected to get the job. It was the first one he'd tried for. There were other options. Plenty of fish in the sea, and shit like that.

Except he wasn't a goddamn fisherman, he was an ex-cop with a criminal record and it _sucked._

He'd never done too good on his own. It had been a thing, between him and Janet, a part of the big screaming matches before the end: _you've got no goddamn initiative, Lionel, no ambition!_

Yeah. He'd never made it past detective third grade-- he hadn't put in the overtime or the ass-kissing for anything bigger. He hadn't wanted the responsibility, honestly: he was better taking order than giving 'em.

Which was great and all, but now what? He'd gotten used to hierarchy, both clean and dirty. As a detective, he got assigned cases, he worked on them. As a part of HR, he got told to do this, fix that, make this go away, and he did that. Even in prison he'd figured out where he had to be, who he had to listen to, in order to survive.

The bottom of the barrel sucked, but at least you knew where you stood.

The string of ads in the paper was... too much, really. After two years of having his days constrained by bars and orders and Elias, he didn't know where to start. Too many choices. And the voice saying, _nope, you're not gonna get 'em, you can apply and it won't matter, you're screwed, pal. You're not good for much. Stick with what you know. Call Elias._

He needed to get a cell phone again to call anyone, though. There were so many little things he needed to do to build a life for himself again, all the tasks you did routinely without thinking about it, when you were part of the world-- but when you were hurled back into it after time-out, they were suddenly insurmountable.

Get car insurance and registration current again (he was pushing his luck already, just waiting for the inevitable ticket on his car). Get a phone. Get a place to live. Get your shit out of storage. It all took money; for money he needed a job, for a job he needed a phone and the ability to drive without getting pulled over. Around and afuckinground.

He found himself at the nearest library a lot. The computers there were free to use. He e-mailed asking about three other jobs, and each time it felt like a goddamn struggle, a massive effort to do such a tiny, mundane necessity of life.

He was scared that it wasn't going to get any easier. You heard about it: guys who did their time, got out, couldn't hack it anymore in the real world, came back in to run on the hamster wheel for another five-to-ten.

That wasn't him, was it? He'd only been in for two years. He wasn't _that fucked up,_ was he?

There was a bar, between the library and the Y. Each time he passed it he was pretty tempted. A guy deserved one goddamn drink, after two years in the joint.

On some level he knew it wouldn't be just the one. He kept walking. Lee got home from camp in twelve days. He couldn't take the chance that he'd be hungover on that day.

Lee was the fuel, for everything. When he wanted to stay in the bottom bunk in the morning and do nothing, Lee was the reason to get out of bed, to get dressed, to eat a bowl of oatmeal in the Y's kitchen, to walk the four blocks to the library, to read the want ads, to write the e-mails.

He was also scared that when the timer ran down, that when Lee showed back up, that after _That Day_ came and went, he wouldn't have any more fuel.

And then maybe he would wind up going into the bar after all.

Or calling Elias.

***

 

> _To:_ _fusco2007@yahoo.com_
> 
> _From:_ _h_finch@gmail.com_
> 
> _Subj: Re: Job position?_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Fusco,_
> 
> _After consideration, you are our leading applicant for the position. Are you available to come out to our home and see the property? We are free most of this week._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Harold Finch_

He stared dumbly at the screen. He hadn't expected anything more from them, not even a ' _We have decided to hire somebody else'_ response, although maybe Mr. Finch was old-school manners enough for that. He'd taken the _We'll-be-in-touch_ for what he'd thought it was: rejection, polite but absolute.

He sat in the library chair and rubbed his palms on his thighs. Then he picked out a reply on the keyboard.

 

> _I am available whenever works for you. My schedule is open. Thank you._

He sat at the computer for fifteen minutes, refreshing his inbox over and over, while a teenager in a hoodie sat a few feet away, sighing.  
"Your time slot's up," the kid pointed out, waving at the clock on the wall.

"Screw off, kid."

"Fuck you, you're just sitting there not even doing anything."

What was this kid, fourteen, fifteen? He was catching mouth from some acne-faced, girly-haired little fucker in jeans more expensive than his own. For _fuck's_ sake.

He gave the twink a prison-stare, like he'd given Mr. Reese a prison-smile except the other side of the coin: cold and _done_ with the bullshit, daring the other fuck to start something, to take his chances, a look that said _I've shot people, you little shit, what have you done lately?_

"I'm waiting for an e-mail so I know whether I gotta go back to breaking people's kneecaps to make a living. Your fucking Facebook can wait, princess."

The kid stared wide-eyed at him, then shuffled away. Fusco felt an animal satisfaction in complete disproportion to the event.

Great. He could scare kids whose balls probably hadn't dropped yet. Big man, indeed. Fusco scrubbed at his forehead. With his luck, the little turd would go squeal to the librarians. That was all he needed: to get kicked out of the New York Public Library system.

His e-mail inbox refreshed. There was a reply. He clicked.

 

>   _Tomorrow at one p.m., then._
> 
> _173 Covington Lane, Oyster Bay Cove_.
> 
> _If you have trouble finding us, call me at 631-555-9075._
> 
> _-Harold Finch_

He clicked the link; it was a Googlemaps for the address. Great. Good. Fantastic.

Lionel sagged back in his chair and heaved an exhale. Relief and nerves churned in his gut in equal proportion. Was he that goddamn desperate?

Yeah. Probably.

***

The drive was strange, surreal. He'd been out a week now but this was-- different. Leaving the city behind for the land of the rich, a land of trees and waterfowl preserves, sailboats and manicured lawns.

He'd driven out this way before, few years back. With a body in the trunk. Some asshole two-bit coke dealer who hadn't wanted to pay his cut to HR, who'd thought he could extort them instead. Poor dumb shit-head. He hadn't been the one to kill him; hadn't been in the room when it had happened (he's pretty sure it had been Simmons, that hatchet-faced bastard), but he'd hauled the dead little dealer out, with Stills; wrapped him up good in canvas and into the trunk he'd gone.

For a few weeks after he'd seen the dealer's face, like how it had been before the canvas had gone over it: peaceful, like he was just sleeping. There in his dreams.

You didn't dwell on that shit. You couldn't. It'd fuck you up. Not like he could have done anything about it then, and not now.

He knew he'd been lucky, in that he hadn't done the time for half his crimes. Burying the dealer was what, obstruction of justice at the least? Concealing a death. And it wasn't the worst of it, the worst of the blood on his hands.

Two years didn't pay his debt. He knew that. He'd gotten lucky, and then he'd gotten out. Maybe prison had been the best goddamn thing to happen to him. He'd still be in it deep otherwise.

He didn't want to think about bodies sleeping in the trunk. He turned his brain elsewhere for the drive out into Long Island.

Think about his maybe-bosses-to-be. Yeah. Ha. Scary Fucker and Nice Guy. (Bad Cop, Good Cop. Ha fucking ha.)

Professor-- Finch-- he wasn't too big a mystery. A rich middle-aged fag, all money and manners, gimp leg it had looked like. Looked like he'd faint at the sign of blood, too. Had his little pink handkerchief all tucked in cozy, Christ. But, and Fusco didn't sell this short: _a nice guy._

'Nice' was hard to come by, in prison. Nice was a luxury commodity. He didn't mind being pitied, if it got him the job. He'd take the rich man's pity and say yessir, thank you. Finch, he could handle.

His boyfriend was another fucking thing.

Guy had moved like he had some training, even on crutches. Maybe he was a gym bunny, did MMA or some shit when he wasn't sucking daddy's dick, or something. Fusco didn't consider himself any sort of expert on relationships, let alone homo ones, but they were a weird fucking couple. If Mr. Finch wanted himself some cute bit of ass, Reese was... a little old for the job, wasn't he? A little old and a little crazy, in Fusco's estimation.

Long as Reese didn't cut his throat while he was cleaning the rain gutters, he didn't care. He could survive contemptuous stares. Shit, he could take stares all day long.

City gave way to suburbs, suburbs gave way to wealth. Northern Boulevard cut past golf courses and big homes that got bigger. Signs with names like 'Mill River' and 'Fox Hollow'. Twenty minutes from the City but it might as well have been another fuckin' planet.

He followed the directions he'd copied down from the map. He turned off into idyllic, wealthy Oyster Bay Cove. He drove his piece-of-shit car past Lexuses and Mercedes and Beamers. He imagined that the well-groomed people walking their dogs and jogging down perfectly-clean sidewalks were staring at him.

Didn't matter. He was doing his own bit of staring. The place was unfuckingreal. Looked like a travel magazine, or a commercial. Everything was so... _scrubbed._

He left what passed for 'the center of town' behind and drove down tree-lined avenues, staring out his open window at the perfect homes of the very wealthy with culture shock settling into his bones. The directions kept him on track, just.

"Oh, fuck _me,"_ he said when he pulled up before 173 Covington Lane.

A wrought-iron gate and a head-high brick wall kept out the world. Through the bars of the gate he could see a long driveway sweeping up to a house that was... nice. Yeah.

Colonial, was that what you called it? Fuck if he knew. He had as much to do with architecture as he did dancing. A green lawn that was, yeah, looking ragged around the edges, and in the middle of it this _house:_

Red brick, white trim, two chimneys, two stories. It didn't sound too bad when he put it like that. But it was _big,_ big in a way he couldn't wrap his head around.

Fusco's natural habitat was the apartment building. The thought of the building before him-- how many bedrooms was that? Six? Eight? More?-- as a home for _two people--_ his native New Yorker brain locked _right_ up.

It looked like something out of a goddamn Christmas movie.

He crept his car forward towards the gate, twisting his sweaty hands around the steering wheel. Money. Right. He'd known they were rich, just... yeah.

"Mr. Fusco. Right on time," said Mr. Finch's fussy little voice from the intercom as he drove up, and the gate swung open.

He eased the car forward, afraid to tap the gas in case he somehow leaked the Bronx onto all of this. Up the hundred-foot driveway, slow, staring around-- wow, they had a _lot of lawn--_ until he was in front of the house. He parked. He got out.

Mr. Finch opened the front door, all smiles, the dog at his side. The dog barked-- just the once, but loud enough to make him jump. Fusco wished he'd thought to bring some fucking doggie treats.

"Lionel, so good of you to make it," Mr. Finch gushed, as if this were a goddamn social call. Fusco rummaged for an appropriate smile in return.

Finch shook his hand (again), and ushered him inside. Fusco stood in the entryway, staring.

"This, uh, this is a nice place you have here."

"Thank you, you're very kind. Would you care for something to drink? It's dreadfully warm out, isn't it?"

"I... yeah, sure, some water would be really-- great, if that's not too much trouble."

"Of course not. Please, follow me."

The boyfriend was not in evidence. Fusco followed in a daze, past a big curving staircase and paintings on the walls and carpet runners over hardwood floors, into a kitchen that looked like something out of a magazine too.

Copper pans hung bright and gleaming and maybe-unused from over a center island with six burners. Granite countertops. Little cutesy spice rack by the stove. Brass faucet and fixtures. Everything was very clean. A big window over the sink let in all the sun you could want. It was a fucking dream kitchen, and he found his eyes wandering helplessly, taking in all the _space,_ open counters and plenty of storage.

Mr. Finch was at the fridge, dispensing ice into a glass, watching him.

"Nice-- nice kitchen," he said, because it _was._

"Ah, thank you. I confess, neither John nor I use the kitchen terribly much. We've become slaves to take-out, I'm afraid," Finch said, and handed him the glass, ice cold water, wonderful in June heat, wonderful after the drive in his car with the non-functioning AC.

"Shame to have a kitchen like this and not use it," he said before he could think about it, and Mr. Finch smiled, pleased and proprietary.

"Do you cook, Lionel?"

Not in the last two years, he hadn't. "Eh. When I have the time."

"Ah yes, the woes of a modern schedule. Perhaps we can chat in the study? Bear, move, please-- go outside, go outside with John-- go on, _loos_ \--"

They cut back through a living room (could you call it that? _Living room,_ to Fusco, meant a couch, an armchair, a TV where you could watch the game. This had fucking... settees and shit, or some word like that--ornate pieces of expensive furniture, and Persian rugs, and definitely no La-Z-Boys or TVs) and through another door, to a room that was all brown leather and wood paneling and a green-shaded lamp on the desk.

Fusco felt like he'd walked into an issue of Better Homes & Gardens.

Mr. Finch gestured for him to sit, so he sat, in a leather armchair that threatened to swallow him up. Finch sat at a big oak desk that looked out through bay windows into the back yard. The laptop computer of the day before sat on the desk, as well as the light clutter of a few stacks of paper. Mr. Finch stared out the windows a moment, and Fusco craned forward enough to see-- Reese, out in the backyard, making a slow, dogged progress around a footpath on his crutches. The dog was at his heels.

Mr. Finch noticed him looking, because he cleared his throat and turned to face him instead.

"I do want to apologize for John," he began. "He was less than kind, the other day. I fear he's been quite... cranky since he fell. Inactivity doesn't agree with him."

Fusco didn't know what to do with this. So the boyfriend was kind of a prick, or maybe just when he was injured; it didn't matter to him, if the guy who signed the checks was alright. So far, Finch was alright. But he looked worried, like as if it really mattered to him that Fusco's feelings might have been hurt, so-- he shrugged.

"Don't blame him. It's hard, being laid up."

Mr. Finch's answering smile was relieved. "Yes, it is, isn't it? Thank you for being understanding, though. I have no doubts that if we do wind up in a long-term arrangement, he'll warm up to you. He's really quite sweet when he wants to be."

Jesus, did he look like he needed convincing, or something? Finch was the guy who had to deal with his boyfriend's sulk, not him. Not more than the job required, anyway. Fusco hunted for a smile again, pasted it on. "I'm sure."

Again Mr. Finch nodded, kinda like a bobble-head doll. "I thought we could do a walk around the grounds, explain exactly what sort of work we're wanting done in that regard, but before then I was hoping we might get to know each other a bit more than the café allowed for..?"

Okay, Fusco thought, the drawback to having a _nice guy_ for a boss was that they wanted to be your _friend_ , too. He sighed beneath his breath. _Just tell me what to do and when to do it,_ he thought, but that wasn't politic, not at all. It wasn't like he even had the job, yet. Play nice. Suck up as much as he needed to.

So he didn't say what he was thinking, he just nodded and sipped from his water. Finch smiled, bright and happy, and clasped his hands in his lap.

"A little bit about John and myself, then: I'm semi-retired from an accounting position in the city-- I still consult for my firm, but I can do most of it here from home, which is a great convenience, of course. John's background is with the Army, then serving as a head of security at my firm. That's where we met, actually-- terribly cliché, I know, workplace romance and so forth, ha ha."

"Ha ha," Fusco echoed dutifully, forcing his smile not to waver. Great. He gave no fucks that the guys were fags, really-- men fucked, whatever, it was their business and not his unless he happened to be really fucking drunk or in prison or something-- but wow, did he not need to hear their queer love story.

It was useful to know that Mr. Killer was ex-Army, though. Fusco filed that away, and made another mental note not to piss the guy off. Don't-Ask,-Don't-Fuckin'-Tell.

"Unfortunately, he was injured on the job a year ago. Retirement..." and Mr. Finch looked out the window towards his boyfriend again, "…has not really agreed with him, I'm afraid. He was managing alright until this tumble off the ladder, though."

He tried to look interested. Maybe he wasn't doing the greatest job of it, because Mr. Finch wrung his hands together and said, "...I'm sorry, I just... I want you to understand what he's dealing with. It's been a difficult year for him. If he's short-tempered, it's... really not you, so much as the situation."

So, apparently, he was in for some verbal abuse. Okay. Fusco exhaled. "I won't quit if he snaps at me, if that's what you're worried about, Mr. Finch. I'm pretty thick-skinned."

Again Mr. Finch gave him the the relieved smile. "I do appreciate that. And please, call me Harold if you like. It seems more fitting, all things considered, don't you think?"

 _Ah Jesus._ Yeah, the guy had a bad case of Friend-Boss syndrome. First names and _everything._ "Whatever you say, uh, Harold."

The guy nodded, clapped his hands together in a _right, let's talk business_ fashion. "Aside from the yardwork, I believe I mentioned cleaning-- dusting once a week or as needed, sweeping, dishes, that sort of thing-- is any of that a problem?"

"Not as long as I don't gotta do it in a French maid outfit," Fusco wise-assed, and Mr. Finch stared at him a little too long, and Fusco kept up the desperate smile ( _it was a joke, buddy, don't worry, I wouldn't expose nobody to that)_ until Mr. Finch got it and awkwardly smiled back at him and they both laughed in relief.

"Haah, no, that won't be necessary, thank you-- let's see, there's Bear of course, between John's leg and my own mobility issues walking him is quite the hassle right now. But he's very well-trained and I doubt he'll give you any trouble. He's really a big puppy, once he's gotten used to you."

"So... like Mr. Reese, then," Fusco couldn't help but say, and again Mr. Finch stared at him. Fusco made a mental note not to make any more jokes. Shit.

"--uh, don't mind me," he muttered.

Mr. Finch cleared his throat. He straightened a few papers on his desk.

"A, another thing... I suppose it doesn't need spelling out but-- John and myself are rather private people. We need to know that we can trust your... discretion."

For a second Fusco felt cold. For a second it sounded like HR, like Stills. _Upstairs needs to know you can keep your trap shut, Fusco, you get it, right?_

Like when he'd entered the café, it took him a second to shake the unwanted déjà vu. Mr. Finch wasn't asking him to cover up something criminal: Mr. Finch was just asking him not to shoot his mouth to his WASP neighbors. Made sense, he guessed; they were probably the only fags on the block, in a neighborhood full of picture-perfect All-American bazillionaire families.

"I'm not a--" _rat,_ he almost said, but no, "--a gossip, Mr. Finch."

"Harold."

"Harold. Right. Sorry."

Mr. Finch twisted his fingers together again, cleared his throat. "If you're more comfortable keeping things more... traditional... that's fine, of course, I just--"

He broke off, fussed with some papers again. It occurred to Fusco, distantly, that the rich man was nervous. He watched in bemusement. What about _him_ could make a sonuvabitch with a house like this, money like this, _nervous?_

Finch's eyes darted out to the window again, then back to Fusco. A moment's hesitation, then-- "You-- do _you_ have any questions?"

Questions. Right. "Uh, yeah-- so how many hours a day do you think...?"

"Oh. Yes. Well, work expands to fill all available time, you know-- I think we have enough that needs doing to justify eight hours a day, if that works for you."

He could live with that. Forty bucks an hour, eight hours a day? It was like a real goddamn job. He'd have to do the math but he was pretty sure he might be making goddamn close to his old salary at that rate.

"And two days off a week?"

"Ye-es. Any preference there?"

"Yeah, uh-- Saturday and Sunday, if that's okay?" And, because it felt greedy, to want proper weekends off, he heard himself adding on, "I'd like weekends with my kid."

"Oh, you have a son?" Finch asked, brightly, and he nodded a little. Lionel smiled, despite himself. He had a son. A son that had been the motivation to make it through two years behind bars and high walls. A son he'd be able to see again. Soon. Twelve days.

"Yeah, uh, I'm, well, divorced a long time now, but-- you know. Light of my life, and all that." He felt sheepish and stupid as soon as he'd said it, even though it was true. He cleared his throat.

"Of course. Weekends aren't a problem."

"Thanks. That's great. Thanks."

An awkward silence settled over the study. Mr. Finch drummed his fingers on his desk, staring hard at Fusco from behind his glasses.

"...you're _sure_ you don't have any other questions?" Mr. Finch asked again, giving him kind of a weird look, but... what else was there?

Fusco shrugged. "When do I start?"


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Finch showed him around the ground floor. The Kitchen, check; two dining rooms except Finch called one the 'breakfast nook' (some fucking 'nook'); the room he'd labeled 'living room' to himself except that Finch called it the 'salon' (he got an inappropriate, silly mental image of fussy Mr. Finch doing someone's hair here and had to bite down on a helpless laugh). The study, he'd already seen; there was a library _too,_ which seemed redundant to him, but whatever. Not his house. (So very not his house.)  
  
A hearth room (separate from the _sa-lon_ ), cloakroom, foyer-- no, really, that was what Mr. Finch called everything-- sunroom, laundry room, bathroom, closets out the ass; a closed door that Finch said led to the master bedroom.

At one point Fusco couldn't help but ask, "What do you use the _second_ story for?"

"Storage, mostly," Mr. Finch admitted with a wave of his hand. "The house was not really built for two people."

Storage. Right. They had a whole floor for crap. They had enough crap to _have_ a whole floor for crap.

Mr. Finch must have caught something in his expression, because he gave him a wan smile and said, "We don't expect you to clean the second floor."

Good. Not like there wasn't enough on the fucking first floor to keep him busy.

Finally outside, the heat hitting like a wave after the air-conditioned crispness of the massive house. He didn't want to think about their electricity bill. Fusco blinked around in the sunlight, shading his eyes with his hand.

The grass stretched and stretched. Big shade trees arched over a brick footpath. There was a water fountain, which burbled into a cutesy little artificial stream. There were birdbaths. There was, of all things, a basketball half-court (he wondered if it had come with the house; couldn't see either guy shooting hoops). He had, clearly, walked into a public fucking park.

Mr. Finch limped for what Fusco figured had to be a four-car garage, beckoning him to follow. Inside, there was a pretty thorough variety of gardening tools, yeah, okay, he definitely hadn't needed to bring his own-- there was a riding mower and a shit-ton of rakes and things that he wasn't really looking at too closely because motherfuck that was a _Bentley_ in the garage next to him, and a Lincoln towncar next to it, and then some sleek goddamn little sports car, and a _sexy_ black motorcycle past that. Nice. Fucking _nice_ , holy shit those were nice cars.

"--gloves and the weed-sprayer here, Lionel-- Lionel?"

"Ah. Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Crime, it was becomning apparent to Lionel Fusco, did not pay. _Accounting_ was where it was at, if it got you this fucking house and these fucking cars. Or maybe Finch was one of those, what'd you call 'em, white-collar criminals. He squinted at the back of Mr. Finch's spiky head as the other man gestured around at all the tools and crap.

Would kinda make sense. Embezzle a fuck-ton of money from the company, in collusion with the chief of security, then scram out to your nice happy ending in the country. Mind, Fusco would've gone for the Bahamas. You stayed in the States, it could all still catch up to you. That was one bit of wisdom he'd picked up in the pen.

Mr. Finch opened the door back into the sunlight, and Fusco shook away his whimsical theorizing as he followed him back outside. He nearly ran into Finch when the guy stopped walking.

The boyfriend was there-- fifteen feet away on the footpath, leaning on his crutches, like he'd been waiting for them to come out. The dog was at his heel. The big guy had been wearing a suit at the coffeeshop: now he was in jeans and a polo shirt, like Fusco but classier. He was sweaty, his face dotted with beads of perspiration and sporting a clenched-jaw look that Fusco could recognize as a man bulling his way through discomfort. For a few seconds he felt a slice of pity for the guy: it was hot enough outside for Lionel, and _he_ wasn't forcing himself to crutch-gimp it around a path with a broken fuckin' leg.   
  
"--John," said Mr. Finch. "I was just showing Lionel the utility room."

The cold eyes tracked from Finch over to him. Fusco offered Mr. Reese a smile that said _yep, hi, I'm your helpful, harmless little gardener, how you doing today?_

Mr. Reese answered with a look of distant, sweaty loathing. He grunted once. Then he turned around, and hobbled off the other direction. The dog followed him.

Yeah, okay, fuck pity.

"John--" Mr. Finch said. He took two steps after his boyfriend, and threw Lionel a _look,_ apology maybe, chagrin, whatever, ah, Jesus.

"Don't sweat it," he said quietly, and Mr. Finch looked torn. He stood there twisting his hands a few seconds, until the boyfriend was out of hearing.

"--I really am sorry."

He sighed. What was he supposed to say? _It's not a problem, I've dealt with worse shit in the joint than a cold shoulder. It's not a problem, I don't give a shit if your moody boyfriend hates my guts. It's not a problem, just as long as I a) get fucking paid and b) don't get my throat cut._  
  
None of those were really workable. If you were gonna deal with a Nice Guy Boss, you had to make 'em think things were fine and peachy; they wanted to think everything was a big goddamn campfire circle and that everyone was friends.

So what he said was, "Look, it'll all work out, yeah?"

Mr. Finch looked less than convinced, but he nodded. "Yes. Yes. I hope so. I..."  
  
He looked after his hobbling boy-toy, brows knit above his professor glasses. "...I think it might be best if you don't... push it, though. Just, ah. Let things happen... naturally."

 _I was honestly planning on staying the fuck out of your boyfriend's way, that okay?_ Yeah, that was something else he probably shouldn't say.

"Sure. You got it."

"Alright. Yes. I-- yes."

Mr. Finch looked like he was about to start making some more apologies for his aging pretty-boy, or start explaining how _John has had a really hard year,_ again, so Fusco spoke first. "Why don't I get started on the lawn? There's still a lotta daylight left, I'd hate to waste it."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, that's-- that's probably a good idea. I... I'll be in the study, if you need anything?"

"Sounds good. I think I've got it under control, but I'll holler if there's a problem, yeah?"

Mr. Finch gave him a wan smile, and turned to limp for the house.

***

The mower was pretty easy to figure out, even if it was far cry from the yard work he'd done for the Department of Corrections. They did not give you the benefit of John Deere riding mowers, in penitentiary. He spent some time figuring out the controls, and then he very fucking carefully drove it out the garage, past the motorcycle (he sneaked a glance, it was a Ducati, he didn't know much beyond American bikes but the thing looked like it could _fly_ ) and the cars because, Jesus-God-save-his-bod, if he nicked one of those babies, he could only imagine what godawful fate Mr. Reese might inflict on him with his crutches.

He stared out at the lawn and... picked a direction. Away from the house, because if he fucked up with the mower he'd rather not have a witness watching out the windows.   
  
Fusco wasn't a great judge of wide-open spaces. Who ever got the chance to see this much grass and trees, short of a football field or Central Park? At least the lawn wasn't the whole property, because _fuck_ if so. The tended grass went for... what, maybe an acre? Two? --before the woods swallowed it up. He rode the mower until he got to an edge, turned, and screwed around with the controls until the blades roared to life.

Everything about this was surreal.

A week ago, he'd lived in a building of concrete and steel mesh, reinforced glass and institutional bars. The closest he had come to nature was when he'd volunteered for the roadwork crew and helped clean up litter and plant trees next to the fucking highway, breathing in exhaust fumes and the stink of a bunch of convicts working under the sun.

Now he was thirty miles out of the city, wearing jeans instead of prison blues, under a summer-blue sky that went on forever. Everything smelled funky-- water and earth, grass and wood. Green scents, clean scents. The sun was hot on his body, his neck, the top of his head. The grass went on for an acre and the woods went on... who knew? They went and they _went,_ this was a land of no walls, no bars, no fences. He could get off the mower and walk into the trees and... and keep walking. Nobody would stop him, no guard would yell. He could go anyfuckingwhere.

Freedom. Yeah. Tasted funny, now, too rich on the tongue. Gave him that weird feeling in his belly, like standing on the top of a bridge and realizing that you _could_ throw yourself off, you didn't necessarily _want_ to, but that it would be like three steps and a little bit of railing and you _could_ go right over.

No call to get weird about shit, though. He had a job to do. If this could be called work, just riding a mower around on a big lawn.

Still, not something you wanted to do with a broken leg, he guessed. Or whatever Mr. Finch's problem was, either: he limped too, with no cast to explain it, but more than that, he moved stiff all over, like a little marionette or something. Car accident, maybe. Lionel had known guys who'd gotten fucked up in wrecks, whiplash and shit.

Eh, wasn't his business. He'd learned pretty well to squash down any vestiges of detective-curiosity, in the pen. _Do your own time._ That was the motto you learned to live by.

Still. Mr. Accountant and Mr. Ex-Army made a weird couple. Maybe, maybe when all the money had gone missing, maybe someone had taken a pot-shot at Ex-Army to cause his 'on-the-job-injury'... Or maybe there'd been a car chase, speeding away with their embezzled millions, and they'd gotten rammed from behind (heh. That was funny, on account they were fags), and the crash had fucked 'em both up...

None of it was at all likely, but it was fun to guess, anyway.

He had to think about something, through the white noise of the mower going, through the smell of cut grass, or he'd start thinking about the lack of walls again, the dizzying, paralyzing options laid out in all directions.

A flock of birds, he didn't know what sort, took flight from the mower's approach, white-and-brown-wings flashing as they fled from the tall grass into the sky, motion against the air. He watched them go, fly away, free.

***

"I don't ask that you like him right off the bat, John, but I do ask that you be _polite_ to him. I'm not sure how you expect this arrangement to work if you're not willing to make _some_ gesture."  
  
"Hmmm. It'd be a _shame_ if it didn't work out."

"...oh, for the love of... John, you said I could go ahead. That implies a certain amount of _acceptance_ on your part. If I had known you were saying 'yes' but meaning 'I'm going to be passive-aggressively resistant to this every step of the way', I wouldn't have bothered."

  
"...I'm working on it."

"Oh, yes, _clearly_."

"Sorry, Finch, it's just a little hard to look at him and be completely okay with the fact that a _convicted criminal_ who's part of one of the city's largest crime rings-- a crime ring that has nearly killed me a couple of times by now, remember?-- is wandering around our house. With you. I thought Bear was _with you,_ until he trotted up to me. Harold. Harold, you need to keep Bear with you, while the guy's here."

"...alright, in the first place, _formerly_ a part of a crime ring, benefit of the doubt, please, and secondly-- you can't be serious. I'm not going to keep a guard dog around for--"

"Yes. Yes you are. That's my terms. You want me to tolerate the guy, give him a chance? For now, I will, until he fucks it up-- but as long as it lasts, Bear is _with you_ if I'm not, anytime this guy's on the grounds."

"John..."

"Promise me, Harold. That's the only way this is happening."

"...fine. If it will put you more at ease, fine. --but don't think for a moment you're getting out of this entirely just because you're playing the _protective worry_ card, John-- you were still being _appallingly rude,_ and you know it."

"What if I play the _protective worry_ , and _possibly jealous_ , cards?"

"Ha. I think you're well aware you don't have to worry about anyone usurping your place in my affections."

"I dunno... you spend all this time alone with him, you said he had 'lovely hair'... I feel threatened, Harold. I think you need to come assuage my fears."

"Really? _I_ was thinking I needed to come give you a lesson in manners."

"Well, that works too, honestly..."

***

Fusco mowed the lawn. It took him a good hour, and he was sweaty by the end of it, his undershirt half-stuck to his skin. He had grass bits on his skin, which itched, and he was way too hot, but... he felt good. It felt _good,_ to work and sweat for your paycheck, to do something clean that had nothing of HR to it, nothing of Elias to it.

He drove the mower back into the shed. There was a half-bathroom (of course there was), so he wrenched the sink on and splashed water over himself, rinsing off his arms and neck and face, cooling down as best he could. He cupped his hands in the water and drank deep of it. It was cold, clean, crisp. Maybe the best water he'd ever tasted, fuck.

Fusco looked at his watch. Over forty bucks, by the clock. Not goddamn bad.

There was a lawn edger, sitting among the endless, superfluous, barely-used tools. He could edge the brick path, go around the fountain and the stream, the flowerbeds, any spots he'd missed... He went to go earn another forty bucks.

It was nearing five o'clock by the time he trudged for the house's back door. Neither Mr. Finch nor the jackass were around that he could see, so he let himself in the back door of the laundry room, wiped his feet off good on the mat there.

"Mr. Finch?" he called into the house, and, after a hesitation, "...Mr. Reese?"

No answer from them, but the dog came, anyway. Clicking nails on tile, and then the furry head with all those teeth poked around the corner, staring him down. Fusco smiled-- no wait, don't do that, don't show animals your teeth-- Fusco dropped the smile, and creaked his way down into a crouch, hand carefully extended.

"Good dog. Good Bear, right? Goooood dog."

The dog ignored his hand, and sat. In the doorway that led to the rest of the house. Just kinda watching him. Okay then.

"Mr. Finch?" he called again, peering around the corner into the kitchen and beyond. He didn't see the guy, though the study door looked open. He took a step that way and the dog growled, long and low _._ He took another step and the dog _barked._

Shit, that really was a lot of teeth.

"Okay! Okay! I'm backing up, Jesus," Fusco informed the dog quickly, suiting action to word and retreating back to the door he'd come through.

Okay. So, he could go back outside again, and... then what? Circle around to the front door? Ring the doorbell? That seemed kinda stupid. As a Plan A, it was not his favorite. Looking stupid in front of your potential employers was never a great first-day-on-the-job thing.

Plan B: walk confidently past the dog, like he was supposed to be here. Be all, uh, alpha with it, or whatever.

Getting mauled in front of your prospective employers also didn't seem like a great idea. Emergency room visits never made a good impression.

Plan C: stand here and wait for Bert or Ernie to show up. (Which one was which? --that was easy, actually, Bert was tall and grumpy, Ernie was way-too-fucking-friendly--) Or for the dog to get bored and wander off.

It seemed like the best option. Fusco settled in to wait. There was a work-sink in the laundry room too: he took the chance to splash his face again, while keeping one eye on the dog. Jesus, but the little grass bits got everywhere. He thought he had some in his hair. He'd need to hit the showers back at the Y; sitting in his own sweat with tiny flecks of grass stuck to his skin for the half-hour drive back to the city wasn't the most appealing prospect, but it wasn't like he was gonna shower here.

He eyed the sink. It was a big basin, the type meant for soaking clothes in if you had to. He could get the worst of the grass off his shoulders, anyway. He yanked his polo shirt free of his jeans, hauled it over his head, and shook it out over the rug.

The house's air-conditioned air felt amazing on his arms and shoulders. He plucked at the front of his undershirt, peeled it from his over-heated skin, got some cool air in there too. He cupped water in his hands again, started sluicing off the dust and grass flecks from his skin.

He had just bent to get his head under the tap when Mr. Finch snuck up on him.

"--very sorry about that, Lionel, I was at the other end of the hou--"

He straightened up too fast, cracked the back of his skull on the steel faucet, _ow,_ gah, he spun around to see Mr. Finch frozen in the laundry room's doorway, blinking at him like a turn signal. Fusco winced, clutched the back of his head.

He very vaguely registered, through the lance of pain in his skull, that Mr. Finch was out of his vest and tie and shit, that his fancy-ass shirt was half-unbuttoned and his hair mussed and his face red. Oh, fucking _fantastic,_ he'd fucking interrupted the guy banging his damned boyfriend, _good fucking job, Lionel--_  
  
"...oh, my goodness," Mr. Finch said rather weakly, still staring at him, and then again, "--oh my goodness. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Shit. Yeah. --crap, sorry for my language, sorry, 'm fine, I just, uh, I, smacked my head, I guess you saw, heh, shouldn't have stood up so fast, it's fine, it'll pass, doesn't even hurt anymore, see?"

This would have been more convincing, he thought, if there hadn't been blood on his fingers when he drew his hand forward.

Well, fuck.

He really should have gone with Plan Goddamned A, he supposed.

The fucking _dog_ barked again, its tail wagging like nobody's business. It was probably, he thought darkly, Reese's goddamn dog.


	5. Chapter 5

"It's not that bad," Fusco protested, as he was herded into the kitchen by a wide-eyed Mr. Finch.

"You don't have to do this," he tried, as Mr. Finch pulled out a chair and waved him into it.

"Look, it's just a fu-- it's just a scratch," he said, as Mr. Finch busted out a pretty damn big first aid kit.

"Head injuries are very _dangerous_ , Mr. Fusco," answered his maybe-boss, and the guy did legit look pretty freaked out, out of all proportion to the small, stinging cut on the back of his skull. He wondered if his assessment of Mr. Finch as one of those guys who fainted at the sight of blood was going to be correct. Man, he hoped not. Not only was that likely to fuck up his job chances, but Reese would probably shank him just for fun.

Mr. Finch wasn't fainting, but he was pale-faced, his bug-eyes huge behind his thick glasses, throwing worried glances Fusco's direction every three seconds. He was wetting a washcloth at the kitchen sink. Lionel sighed and gave up. He contented himself with glaring at the goddamn dog, who sat there, giving him a smug doggy smile.

"You punk," he mouthed, silently, at the dog. The dog answered with a gleeful tailwag.

Mr. Finch limped on over and started dabbing at the back of his head with the washcloth. Fusco flinched.

"Sorry, I'm trying to be gentle," Mr. Finch said, all nervous-like, and he almost laughed, nervous in turn.

"S'okay."

It wasn't that it hurt. It wasn't _that._ It was just... kinda hard, having someone in his space, someone in his blind spot where he couldn't see their hands, couldn't watch their eyes for the hint of their intentions, for clues of impending violence. He shifted uncomfortably in the straight-backed kitchen chair, rubbing his palms on his thighs.  
  
His polo shirt was still in the goddamned laundry room, draped over the edge of the sink. He was sitting in his tank top while Mr. Finch played doctor, and the asshole dog looked on. What the fuck was wrong with his life?

"Well," Mr. Finch said after what seemed like a really, really long time, "you're right, it doesn't appear to be very serious. You must have hit your head right _on_ the faucet ring, you've got this little half-moon cut. Hang on, I've got Neosporin."

"You don't have to do all this," Fusco tried, again, his voice wooden, his fingers gripping at his jeans.

"Nonsense," Mr. Finch said dismissively, and Fusco gritted his teeth. He sat still. He stared at the fancy home décor wall clock on the wall, while a stupidly-rich man fussed over him like he was a fucking kid with a scraped knee.  
  
"...I suppose you won't let me take you to the local clinic," Mr. Finch said while he screwed around trying to make a Band-Aid stick on his scalp. Fusco would have given him a disbelieving look if he could have seen him.

"You suppose right," he said instead. "It's a tiny godda-- it's a tiny _cut."_

Finch came back into his field of vision, hands fluttering anxiously. "Yes, yes, I suppose so, I just-- you _did_ hit your head. How is your vision-- how many fingers am I holding up?"

He stared at him, wondering how exasperated he could get away with letting himself be before he really did sink his chances of getting the job. " _Three._ I'm fine, Mr. Finch."

"And what's today's date?"

"Look. Thanks for the concern. But I don't gotta concussion, okay?"

Mr. Finch frowned. He peered critically down at him. And raised the back of his hand to Fusco's forehead. Oh, for _fuck's_ sake.

"You're feverish," he said with his brows drawing together above his glasses.

"No. No-ooo, I'm not. I'm _hot_ from working outdoors, for four hours, in _June_."

Mr. Finch drew back, still frowning. He looked Lionel over, head to toe, great, awesome, he was a sweaty fuckin' grass-stained mess--

"--oh dear. You are going to have the _worst_ sunburn."

Fusco stared. "Sorry?"

"You didn't use any sort of sunscreen, did you?"

What.

No, he hadn't used any goddamn _sunscreen_. Jesus, he was really on fucking Mars, wasn't he? What next, was he supposed to have held a fuckin' umbrella over himself while he worked too?  
  
" _No,_ " he growled, and then prudence caught up with him and he added on a muttered, "...sir."

Mr. Finch tutted. The genuine article, a real _tut,_ like your grandma when you showed up to Mass with your shirt untucked, like your mother when you got dirt and blood on your new clothes on the first day of school. Mother Mary, he was being fuckin' _mother-henned_ by a queer millionaire gimp.

"I've got some aloe vera lotion, hang on."

Fusco stared disbelievingly at the back of his boss's head. "Y'know, that isn't _necessary,_ " he said, trying again. Not like it seemed to make a fuckin' difference; he might as well have been talking to a wall. Mr. Finch limped back with a pump-bottle, and Fusco had two seconds in which he was aware that Finch was about to squeeze out some of the lotion. He rather desperately intervened-- reaching out, grabbing the bottle from Finch's hands.

"I can do it myself, thanks, that's great, I've got it."  
  
"Oh-- right. Yes. Sorry."  
  
Fusco was really glad he'd done that, because as he settled back into the chair and fumbled with the bottle of lotion he caught sight of Reese, standing there in the kitchen's doorway like a specter of death. Shit- _Jesus!_ He jumped in his chair, nearly dropped the bottle.

Goddamn, how did a man on crutches move without you _hearing_ him?

Mr. Reese stared death at him across the big, idyllic kitchen. Lionel gave him a small, helpless wave with one hand, just like he'd given him prison-smiles (which so far hadn't managed to get Reese to cut him any damned slack), _Hey, hi, how you doin', sorry I interrupted your gay sex, and wow how long have you been standing there and were you watching your boyfriend putting his hands in my hair and shit, because I swear to you, not what it probably looked like, do not kill me, I am so not worth it._

Mr. Finch followed his wave, twisted to look at the doorway-- "Oh. John."

(Fusco thought it was really unfair that Mr. Finch didn't appear at all embarrassed at his boyfriend's creepy appearance. Why was _he_ the only one being embarrassed here? He hadn't done anything goddamn _wrong.)_

"Harold. Wondered what was taking so long."

Mr. Finch gestured to the first aid kit. "There was an unfortunate incident with a faucet. I believe it's all squared away now. Lionel, were you hydrating properly while you were working?"

There was no winning, was there. "Yeah. Sure. I had some water."

Mr. Finch looked like he was going to start tutting again, so Lionel pushed himself to his feet and hurriedly put some distance between himself and Mr. Reese (the dog had padded over to sit at his master's feet, yeah, check, the dog was _totally_ Reese's evil little minion [okay, not so little, but still]), and to go get his goddamned shirt.  
  
"So, uh," he called from within the laundry room as he pulled his damp-and-dirty polo back on, "I did the lawn, edged around the path, scrubbed out the fountain... wasn't sure what else you wanted done outside, so I figured, I'd better come check in..."

He got his head through the collar, peeked back into the kitchen. They were looking at each other again, like that moment in the coffee-shop, that whole _private-conversation-happening-here._ Mr. Finch cleared his throat and gave Fusco that bright, fixed smile. Reese continued to do a great impression of a serial killer.

"It sounds like you got quite a fair bit done, thank you, Lionel. A good first day, I think. Aside from head injuries. Mmm, I'm not altogether sure you should drive--"

"Mr. _Finch,_ I am fine. I'm not concussed, I'm lucid, my eyes are tracking, we're peachy, okay? Tiny. Little. Cut."

Mr. Finch's hands fluttered nervously again, then finally settled at the first aid kit to start putting things away. "I suppose. If you're dizzy in the morning—"

"If I'm dizzy in the morning, I'll go to the doctor, promise. And if I'm not, I come work, yeah?"

The man sighed. "Very well. Tomorrow, then-- perhaps nine in the morning? Is that too early?"

"Nine's fine. You're the boss."

"Right," said Mr. Finch, doing something funky with his eyebrows, and again, "--right. I'll, ah, let me just get your payment for the day. Will a check suffice?"

Who talked like that? _Will a check suffice?_ He'd have preferred cash, but what the hell, a check worked. Just meant a stop at the bank. No big deal. "That's fine."

Finch gave one of his bird-like bobby nods and limped off for the study. Fusco stayed by the door to the laundry room, in case stepping back into the kitchen got him some more growling, or his face ripped off. Or, you know, the dog might do something to him, too.  
  
Since Mr. Reese was his _employer_ (or at least, the guy the employer was banging), and he was just the employee, he kept his trap shut and waited for the other guy to say something.

That didn't seem to be happening. Okay. That was fine too. He had no problems with silence.

He studied the guy from the corner of his eye. Man was leaned against the doorjamb so he didn't have to stay balanced with the crutches; one hand down, scratching the dog behind the ears. No longer directly looking at Fusco-- pretending like he wasn't still _watching_ him.

Before Prison (it was one of those date-things, like BC and AD; for Lionel Fusco there was now _Before Prison,_ and _After Prison),_ back when he'd been someone with a badge and a gun and the weight of HR behind him, he'd have gotten in the asshole's face. Yeah. So what if the guy had eight inches on him, he'd have gone up, gotten in his space, and said, _Scuse me, you got a problem with me? Did I insult your mother after I fucked her last night or something? Help me out here, I'm trying to remember--_ and maybe they'd have thrown down and maybe not, but, but that was how it would've gone, before. Stills would have had his six, grinning, always down for a pistol-whipping of some jerk-off that didn't respect the City's Fuckin' Finest.

Yeah. Before. He liked to think he was wiser than that, now. Or maybe he was just what he'd always been, without the _accessories_ : a short, fat fuck who'd just as likely get his ass handed to him if he had to do it alone.

\--anyway, this Reese guy.

What was he, six foot? Six-two? Somewhere around there. He'd lost his collared shirt: just a T-shirt now, jeans, bare feet. No ink Fusco could see (it was second nature now to look for tats, to check for a 14 or an 88, a five-crown or a shamrock or a teardrop), which made him an exception to most Army guys he'd ever known. Maybe the tats were under the shirt.

There were plenty of scars, though. The roughed-up knuckles that spoke to a history of bare-handed punches (Fusco'd thrown enough jabs and cuts in his life to feel his own fingers itch in involuntary empathy); thin white lines here and there over sinewy forearms. Guy'd seen action enough, alright.  
  
Fusco was not actually a pushover. He'd wrestled in high school-- made team, too-- and boxed on and off for years, good way to pound out the tension of cases not going how they were supposed to. Cop hand-to-hand training had showed him a few things too. He knew he didn't look like much, and no, he wasn't the baddest motherfucker around, but yeah: he could hold his own. And prison had sharpened him, because it'd been four months before he'd hooked up with Elias, and even then he'd still had to watch himself, and he'd spent a lot of time doing reps in the weight room because there wasn't a lot else to do.

All things being equal, Fusco gave himself even odds against most of the street scum he could run into on a Saturday night.

Mr. Reese's forearms, lean and hard, with their almost-delicate scratches of scars, said: _not on your best day, cupcake._

That was fine. He wasn't picking any fights.

And Reese was ignoring him. So he could ignore Reese. Worked out real fuckin' nicely for everyone.

Fusco watched the wall clock, and he waited for Mr. Finch's return, and he thought about how good a cigarette would feel right now. Like the bottle, it was another habit he'd kicked out of necessity. It would be a bad idea to start again; he'd never manage to quit a second time. But damn, that first drag would feel good.

Mr. Finch came back. Limpety-limp down the hall, into the kitchen. He had a leather checkbook with him.  
  
"Let's see," he said, glancing at his watch, "you started work at one, and it was what, five o'clock when you came inside?"

Fusco bit the inside of his cheek for a second, just a second. "...more like two, really, before I got out there and started mowing," he admitted.

Mr. Finch blinked at him from behind his glasses. "Yes, but you were _here_ at one. We were doing orientation."

Shit. Okay. That worked fine. Mr. Finch was generous-rich rather than tightwad-rich, good to know. Mr. Finch made out the check on the kitchen island with what looked like a gold pen.

He took it slowly, looked down at the nice, loopy handwriting. _Pay to the order of –_ _Lionel Fusco_ _. In the amount of –_ _One-hundred-and-sixty-dollars and zero cents_ _. For –_ _Yardwork_ _._

It was a paycheck. It was a first step on the road back to having a life.

"I'll, uh, I'll see you guys tomorrow, then," he said, words suddenly hard, tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. Fuck, he was getting all girly over it. "Thanks. Thanks."

"No, thank you," Mr. Finch said as he slipped his pen away into a pocket. "And Lionel...? Do drive safely."

***

"Goodness, John. Did you see his _shoulders?"_

"...right. I'm going to go see what the lawn looks like."

"Oh, yes, I suppose we should. Hrm, I hope he's quite alright driving..."

"Man seemed _fine_ to me, Harold. You worry too much."

"Heat exhaustion is a real thing, John, and so are _concussions,_ which you should _know."_

"For the last time, I barely bumped my head-- I landed on my _leg,_ remember? --also, will you wipe that look off your face, or I really am going to start getting jealous."

"...what look."

"You _know_ what look. That 'I'm thinking about what sauce I'm going to drizzle on you before I eat you' look. Which I'm not used to seeing aimed at somebody _not me."_

"Sorry, sorry. I just. -- _shoulders."_

"...I have shoulders too."

"Yes, yes, of course you do, John."

"...you know, you're lucky you're cute when you're turned on."

"You don't understand, I came around the corner and he was, mn, bent over with his head under the sink and, he, with his shirt off, and, and, and-- _shoulders_."

" _He's_ lucky you're cute when you're turned on. Come back to bed, Harold. We'll look at the lawn later."


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up hurting. Fusco stared at the bunk over his head, listened to people moving in the halls, got his bearings.

Not prison. ( _Every day above ground is a good day._ ) He hurt across his shoulders, lower back, backs of his arms. Why? --right, an hour bent over using the weedwhacker edger thing on the yard. Mr. Finch's yard.  
  
He sat up, slow, wincing at the warm tightness of the skin on his face, forearms, the back of his neck. Okay, yeah, little bit sunburnt. And a headache.

So why'd he feel as good as he did?

...'Good' might have been stretching it, he thought. Wrong word. Not good, but... _clean_. He was hungry, because he'd worked hard, and that made you hungry. He had money in his pocket (not much, after he'd cashed his check and paid for his room and bought dinner and two more shirts and put gas in the car, not much left, but-- but some). He had shit to do.

He had something to get out of bed for, other than bed check by the jackhole guards. So: he got up.

Lionel's kind-of-good mood lasted him through an oatmeal breakfast, through the drive out of the city, all the way back out to Oyster Bay Cove and up the long driveway.

The boyfriend opened the front door, dog by his side. Fusco blinked, kept himself from reacting visibly beyond that.  
  
"Morning," he said, and Mr. Crutches took a step back from the door, which Fusco guessed was the closest he was gonna get to a _come on in._ He threw a surreptitious glance at his watch as he came inside, to double check that he was neither early nor late: he wasn't.

"Harold's still asleep," said Reese (and Fusco didn't say _Yeah? Did you drug him?)._ "But he left a list for you."

The list was on the kitchen island-- Reese helpfully jerked his head that way, before picking up a coffee mug from the counter and one-crutching it past Fusco to the living room, what Finch had called the _hearth room_ yesterday. If it had been Mr. Finch with the coffee, and the crutches, Fusco would have offered to carry the mug for him. As it was he just looked at the list, squinting down at it since his reading glasses were in the car.

> - _Fill the bird-feeders (feed is in garage cupboards)_
> 
> _-Clean out the rain gutters (_ _ PLEASE _ _ MAKE _ _ SURE _ _ YOU _ _ HAVE _ _ THE _ _ LADDER _ _ WELL-BRACED _ _)_
> 
> _-Wash the windows_
> 
> _-Exercise Bear_
> 
> _-Weed the flower beds, trim back dead growth_
> 
> _-Fertilize the lawn (use Scotts Weed-n-Feed, in garage cupboards)_
> 
> _-Prune the climbing roses on the back porch_
> 
> _-Laundry_
>
>> _-Clean dryer vents_
>> 
>> _-Pick up dry cleaning from GreenSleeves Cleaners in town_
> 
> _-Sweep back porch..._

The list went on. And on. Fusco stared down at it.

"Hey, uh," he called in to Reese, "do you know if he wants all this done... today?"

Reese was reading the newspaper; he turned his head slooowly to look at him. Stared at him.

"I don't know," he said in his stupid soft voice that meant it took you a second to realize he was being unhelpful. "Do you want me to wake him up and find out?"

Oh, what a fucker. Fusco quickly shook his head. "No, nope, that's fine, don't wake him."  
  
"Alright." Reese looked back to the paper.

"I'll, uh, I'll just get started, then," Fusco said.

"Alright," said Reese again, and sipped his fuckin' coffee.

***

There were three different loads of laundry sitting on top of the machines, each in its own wicker basket that looked like it came from the fuckin' Pottery Barn or something. Mr. Finch's neat, loopy handwriting adorned three different notes, which instructed him that _this_ pile was to be washed in _hot_ water, normal cycle (dry on full heat), and _this_ pile was to be washed in _warm_ water, permanent press, and finally the delicates should be washed in _cold,_ Lionel, and hung to dry. He could all but hear Finch's voice directing.  
  
As a rule, Fusco divided his own laundry into "whites" and "everything else". He wound up going to his car to get his reading glasses, to make sure he was reading the right settings on the washer that probably _cost_ more than his damn car.

Next: the bird feeders. He'd noticed a few of them yesterday, while mowing the lawn. It wasn't until he set out to refill them that he realized there were a fucking _lot_ of them. He refilled two nectar-feeders hanging on the back porch (they looked more like decorative lanterns than bird-feeders; he was lucky that he saw a hummingbird hanging around one), dumped seeds into four more feeders hanging from the trees, and another feeder had this sort of... purple jelly? that he wound up spending twenty minutes looking for in the garage until he finally gave up and taste-tested it and confirmed that it was just what it looked like: grape jelly.

He was pretty sure Mr. _Finch_ wasn't screwing with him, but he didn't put it past Reese.

He circled the house with a sack of bird seed in his hands, found two more feeders, filled those, and glanced through the living room window when he passed, to make sure that the boyfriend was still where he'd left him.

He wasn't.

Great, so Reese would probably go all ninja-fucker on him again. Fusco resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder nervously. Would throwing birdseed over his shoulder keep the guy away? No, it was salt you needed. That and a few Hail Marys. Ha, ha.

Lionel worked. The laundry meant he had to keep traipsing back inside, to transfer clothes from washer to dryer, dryer to folding. He didn't want to start something big like the windows or the gutters until the laundry was done, but he knocked a lot of the small things off the list. He worked, because in the first place, he wanted the job, so he had to impress Mr. Finch; in the second place, because busy was good, keeping his hands moving was good, not-thinking was good; and in the third place, because fuck Reese and his judgmental little stares.

Asshole thought he was lazy. Or maybe he just thought Lionel would turn up his nose at having to fold Reese's socks and shorts for him. He was wrong on both counts, and Lionel meant to prove it. He'd pulled laundry detail in prison plenty of times (and Elias liked his crap ironed _right)_ ; it was just another job, just something that needed doing, so he did it.

He was ironing a polo shirt (had to be Reese's, by the size) when there was a tentative knock at the laundry room's open door. He knew it was Mr. Finch before he turned around, because the boyfriend wouldn't have knocked.

"Good morning," he said as he turned.

"Afternoon, actually, I think." Mr. Finch was a little more casual today: no three-piece, but slacks and a cardigan in one of those colors that started with a _p:_ peach or puce or periwinkle or some crap like that. Wait, no, those were all different colors. Weren't they? Periwinkle was... blue?

\--the _point_ was, Mr. Finch was wearing a fucking cutesy little pink sweater-vest. Goddamn, could this shit _get_ any gayer.

And also, it was after noon. Fusco darted a worried glance down at his watch because the time was going faster than he'd realized. It was just past, though, so not so bad. At least he had the laundry mostly done.

"You're right," he said in lieu of something clever. "Afternoon."

Mr. Finch offered him an awkward smile. "How's your head today?"

"S'fine," he said, because it mostly was.  
  
"No feeling sick when you woke up?"

"Nope."  
  
"Well-- good. That's good."  
  
He smiled and nodded, ironed down the collar of Reese's shirt while Mr. Finch hovered in the doorway.  
"Finding everything alright?" Mr. Finch asked after a few seconds.

"Sure," said Fusco. "--actually, uh, question-- is that, uh, grape jelly out in the feeder by the fountain?"

"Oh! Yes, that's for the orioles," Mr. Finch said, beaming. "I'm sorry, I should have made a note. We just use the grape jelly from the fridge."  
  
"...birds eat grape jelly?"

"A few species, yes. Orioles, cardinals, robins, catbirds..." Finch waved his hands around as if to gesture the birds he named into being. "But you have to avoid giving them too much sugar, of course, and no high-fructose corn syrup-- I stick to Welch's organic jellies as a rule. Amusingly enough, the robins don't seem to like it as much as the stuff with corn syrup. And of course there are some problems with squirrels, but I finally found a feeder that keeps them off--"

Mr. Finch talked about bird food. Mr. Finch talked about mealworms and peanut butter suet dough and seed mixes and protein and seasonal dietary shifts. Lionel's eyes started glazing over somewhere during 'migration routes', while Mr. Finch made animated hand gestures that might or might not have represented bird migration lanes over the eastern seaboard.

It was the dog who saved him. Maybe it felt guilty about yesterday. It came up behind Mr. Finch, jammed its nose into his hand, and his boss blinked.

"--oh, Bear. Yes, yes I know it's lunchtime, don't be greedy-- ah, actually that was why I came to check on you, Lionel. We don't expect you to work through lunch, you know."

He slid Reese's shirt onto a hanger. "Don't worry about me, I'm alright."  
  
"Nonsense. John and I were planning on getting lunch to-go from Canterbury's Ales-- if you'll run into town and fetch it for us, you could get the dry cleaning at the same time?"

Fusco shrugged internally. It was all the same to him. "Sounds good, Mr. Finch."  
  
"Harold," Mr. Finch corrected him, apparently remembering again that he wanted to be Buddy Boss. "Hang on, then--"

He disappeared briefly. Fusco paired some socks. Finch came back to the doorway, limp limp limp, and handed him a menu. Fusco blinked.

"What would you like, Lionel?"

Oh. Okay. He stared down at the menu, plucked his glasses from his collar again to read it.

\--shit, it was all oysters and lobster, shrimp and steak. _Steak._ Lobster. When was the last fucking time he'd had a steak? A bite of melt-in-your-mouth lobster? He was suddenly, ravenously hungry.

Instinctively, his eyes slid right to the prices, and he winced. Fifteen bucks for a lunch dish? What the hell was the dinner menu like? He scanned through descriptions-- _oysters with spinach, cheese, anisette, shallots, lobster sauce--_ _littleneck clams in garlic chardonnay--_

They had a shrimp salad for twenty bucks. Twenty bucks for a goddamn salad. There was a part of him that was tempted. Just fuckin' _go_ for it. Rich man wanted to pay, he could pay. Grilled shrimp succulent and juicy and tender on the tongue...

No, no. Don't do that.  
  
"I, uh.... the Caesar salad, thanks." He tried to pass the menu back. Mr. Finch merely blinked at him from behind his glasses.

"And what else?"

"No, that's plenty."

"That's nowhere near enough, you can't be expected to work all day on a _Caesar salad,"_ Mr. Finch said with utter dismissal.

He looked back down to the menu, and scanned a little desperately for something under ten bucks. "Okay, how about the... the baked clams?"

"Oh, yes, those are quite good," Finch said, back to beaming once more. He plucked the menu from Fusco's hands and shuffled away from the door.

Fusco stood there a moment, bemused as fuck. He huffed out a breath, shook his head, and went back to folding clothes.

***

He parked his Toyota between an Audi and a Porsche, on a cutesy street full of art galleries and travel agencies and mock Tudor architecture. Fusco grimaced out at the street, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Everyone was white. It was the sort of thing he'd paid attention to before prison too, Bronx-born cop that he was, but in prison-- in prison, lots of the guys found what protection they could by sticking close to anyone who shared the same skin color, or something close to it. Hell, the Brotherhood had given him the chance to join; he'd thought about it, too, because survival was survival and prison was not the place to fucking stand up for political correctness or what-the- _fuck-_ ever.

But he'd worked this case once, ages gone, with some neo-Nazi shitheads who'd cut a black kid up and let him bleed out, and every time he'd thought about saying _yeah, sure, ink that AB on my arm, nice to meet you brothers,_ he'd remembered that kid's sad sorry cut-up body, and having to get his mom down there for ID, and he just couldn't quite do it. He'd declined, polite as he could, and stayed the _fuck_ out of their way.

But the point was that cell blocks divided by color, and while he'd steered clear of the race stuff as best he could, it was something he'd paid attention to every goddamn minute, in the rec yard, in the caf, because if a fight was going to break out he wanted his pasty ass _out_ of the way. So yeah. He'd learned to keep a running count to himself: there were the blacks, there were the whites, La Familia had their corner, you found a spot out of the way--

\--and here, _everyone_ was white. Vanilla goddamn cream, and lots of money.

Fusco got out of the car, shaded his eyes with his hand against the sun, and went inside the restaurant.

Shade inside, dark wood and comfortable seats and the smell of grilling seafood. Busy joint, tables full with well-dressed white people eating oysters. He stood there letting his eyes adjust a second, imagining eyes on him: judging his sweat, his thrift-store clothing, his Bronx-ass self.

The hostess was blonde, cute, college kid maybe, or maybe high school senior. "Hey," he said, "how you doing? I've got an order to pick up?"  
  
She flashed a bright white smile that spoke of orthodontia, tucked her hair back behind her ear. Her skin was tan. She had pink polish on her fingernails. Fuck him, he was old enough to be her father.

"Sure, what's the name?"

"Finch."

"Oh! Yeah, Mr. Finch, he called in. We've got it ready, give me a sec-- you're a friend of theirs?"

He could have said yes, he supposed. Eh. Fuck it, may as well rub it in her face. "Nah. I'm the help."

"Oh," she said, and brought him the food. He paid with the money Finch had given him. Tipped for good measure (it wasn't his goddamn money), and then he bulled his way back out into the heat.

He stood on the sidewalk, squinting against the sun. He should buy a pair of sunglasses, he thought. Yeah. That'd be a good investment, against the coming months of summer. He shifted his sweaty grip on a bag containing sixty bucks worth of overpriced seafood, and thought about how much he missed his old goddamn life.

He wondered how much sunglasses cost, in Oyster Bay. Too much, for sure.

He blew his last twenty on dog biscuits instead. That was an investment too. Look to the goddamn future, and all that.

Look to your survival, just like in the pen.


	7. Chapter 7

Fusco got back to the house, and the first thing he noticed was that the spot where he'd parked, he'd left an oil spot on their driveway. Great. Figured.

He took the food, and the clothes from the dry cleaner's, inside. Mr. Finch was in the kitchen, taping a piece of paper to the fridge-- he glanced at it, saw a grid-- and Fusco gave him a nod and put the food on the counter.  
  
"Oh, I'll take the clothes, thank you--"

His boss gimped off for the bedroom with an armful of clothing. The dog stayed put: sitting next to Fusco as he pulled out the to-go cartons from the restaurant, staring up at him, tail wagging.  
  
"Don't give me that shit," Fusco muttered. "I bought you dog biscuits, you don't get _clams._ Or sushi. Suck it up."

The dog whined. Fusco rolled his eyes and opened the package of dog biscuits. Reese appeared, ghost-like, as he was tossing the dog the biscuit.

"What's that?"

Fucking adrenaline responses. Fusco gripped the edge of the kitchen island, breathed deep, and made himself not say, _What's it fucking_ _look_ _like?_  
  
Instead: " 'S a dog biscuit. Thought I'd get him a treat."

Reese crutched himself forward, tall, unsmiling, physically imposing even with a busted leg. Reese picked up the package from the counter and looked it over coolly. "Harold's pretty particular about what Bear eats."

 _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._ "Yeah?"

"Yeah."  
  
"Guess I'll have to ask him what he wants for his dog, then."  
  
Reese lowered the package an inch, lifted his eyes to Fusco's, took a step in. (Fusco took an automatic step backwards.) In that just-above-a-whisper voice, Reese said, "Bear's _my_ dog."

Fusco had no intention of dying over something like dog biscuits. There was something vaguely apology-shaped on his tongue (how fucking stupid was that, that he was getting ready to back down like a bitch, over _this_ ), but Mr. Finch's uneven step came down the hall, into the kitchen. The tension dropped a notch.

Only a notch, though, because Mr. Finch paused in the doorway, looked between them, and pushed his glasses up his nose with a questioning glance before he zeroed in on the little paper bag of doggy treats.

"What's that?"  
  
"Lionel got Bear some dog biscuits," Reese all but purred. Fucking shit-eating, I'm-telling-on-you voice.  
  
"Oh-- well isn't that thoughtful," Finch smiled, and it took every bit of willpower he had to not flash a shit-eating grin back at Reese, to say, _Oh look, I'm thoughtful, how you like them apples, dickhead? _But he still didn't want to die over dog biscuits, so he said nothing, just cleared his throat and set to unpacking the rest of the food. Meeting Reese's eyes would probably get his throat ripped open.

"Let's just see them, then," said Mr. Finch, and his sense of victory wilted as Finch came over, took the package from Reese's hand, and flipped it over to start reading ingredients.

"Mm-- mh-hmnn--"

Reese was smirking, he was pretty sure of it. Fusco entertained a fantasy of suffocating the asshole in the shrimp salad, while Mr. Finch read through to see if the goddamned _dog biscuits_ were up to _par._

"No preservatives, no fillers, no by-products... oh, there's a barbecue flavor, Bear's favorite _..._ Thank you, Lionel, I'm sure Bear will love these," Mr. Finch said, and tested this theory by fishing out one of the treats and tossing it down to the eager black-hole of a dog. It was gone in one bite.

Score, motherfucker. Reese went back to looking generally pissed at the universe. Fusco smiled to himself, and turned around from the food he'd laid out on the counter.  
  
"Eh, I figured I'd better get him on my side," he said, light enough that it could be a joke although it was God's honest truth. "Here's your change and the receipts, Mr. Finch."

"Harold."

"Harold, right. And here's the... crabcakes, the Buffalo oysters, and the littlenecks."  
  
"Thank you, that all looks splendid. John, can you grab some plates? Lionel, will you eat with us...?"

He very nearly said yes, because he was riding a smug little triumph-high (from goddamned dog biscuits), but he looked sidelong at Reese's murder-face and thought better of it.

"Nah, y'know, I'm, uh, I'm just gonna get to work on the lawn."  
  
"Oh. Well. Be sure to eat your lunch."  
  
"You bet. I'll take it outside with me," Fusco said, and picked up his own food to head for the back patio.

***

"You could say _thank you_."

"He's trying to bribe his way into Bear's affections."

"Well, of _course_ he is."

"...and that doesn't bother you?"

" _No,_ John, it doesn't, because Mr. Fusco is not attempting to rob us or kill us in our sleep, he is attempting to fit into our household and do his job, which includes walking a dog who is-- you may have forgotten-- rather intimidating. I don't fault him in the least for trying to get into Bear's good graces."

"...well... I do."

"Yes, I think you've made that very clear. Eat your crabcakes, John."

***

He wished he'd done the lawn first, when the day had been cooler. Nothing for it, though. Fusco took ten minutes to wolf down his food (it was good, it was fucking delicious if he was honest, but he had work to do), squinting out at the broad swath of sunlit lawn like a general planning his assault.

There was a spreader in the garage-- there was every goddamn gardening tool known to man, so of course there was a spreader-- and Fusco loaded it up with the lawn feed and set to work pushing it in long rows over the grass.

He was sweating within five minutes. He didn't really mind this: the work grounded him, like riding the mower had, like doing the laundry had. It was busy work and it contained no moral dilemmas. There was no right or wrong to pushing a lawn feeder. You just pushed.

The cut-grass smell from yesterday was still in the air. He wasn't sure he'd get used to this country air crap, to taking deep breaths that didn't smell of gasoline and asphalt. The sun was warm, and he thought about how, if he were a rich motherfucker with a house like this, he'd spend summer afternoons on the patio, with a glass of iced tea, maybe with a game on the radio, dozing in the languid, bone-pervading heat.

Excellent plan. He could execute it when he won the lottery.

The work wasn't too hard, not back-breaking. Just warm. Just enough for him to be sweating, feeling it in his shoulders from the day before. He didn't mind this. In town he'd been bothered by being a working-class dick in their mock-Tudor world; out here it was okay to be just a working-class dick, because that was what he was doing, _working_ , and the only person who might see was his boss.

And Ninja Asshole, he guessed. That'd keep you on your toes. He pushed the feeder a little harder.

Whatever the guy's problem was, he was better off avoiding him. It was stupid to butt heads, and it wouldn't win him any brownie points with Finch. Just keep his head down, don't pick fights, and if Reese picked fights, let him win them. _Do your own time._

He did his own time. He did his own time until the lawn was done, and Mr. Finch smiled and said _thank you, Lionel, that looks lovely, let me get your check for the day--_ and this was good, this was workable, sweaty at the end of the day but money in his pocket, he could do this.

He could do this.

Mr. Finch signed the check on the granite island, passed it over to him. He tucked it away carefully into his wallet.

"Oh, one thing, Lionel--"

"Yeah?"

"What phone number can we reach you at, if we ever need to cancel for the day?" Finch asked, giving him that attentive look from behind the glasses. Fusco slid his wallet back into his pocket, slowly.

_Actually, I don't have a phone. But if you need to get a hold of me, you can call the Y..._

Yeah. No. No, he couldn't bring himself to say that. Probably he was being a dumbfuck, probably Mr. Finch wouldn't care, would only give him a single blink and go, _oh, well, let me just get the number then--_ but Jesus, it was _pathetic_ that he was living at the goddamn YMCA. He'd already basically begged the guy for the job, the other day, and apparently it only took two days of getting paid for him to suddenly think he was a regular person again, because all of a sudden he didn't want Mr. Finch to know where he was sleeping, to what extent exactly he was a fuckin' charity case.

"Yeah, uh, I've just moved into a new place and I haven't got my phone hooked up yet," he said with a hand on the back of his neck. Mr. Finch's expression, what did you call that, inquisitive or whatever? --made him look like a bird, anyway, peering at you with his professor eyes like he was expecting an answer to a classroom question, with nothing in his face to tell you whether you were on the right track or wrong.

It hit Lionel that the guy was hard to read. Lionel didn't think he was Mr. Fucking Psych or anything, but he got people pretty well, most of the time. Because most people weren't too complex, they wanted what they wanted (money, sex, power, or drugs were the four most common), and once you knew what they wanted it was easy to suss out if they were angry (because they weren't getting their money) or happy (because they held all the power) or desperate, desperate enough for their fix that they'd spill their guts to you if it got them their high.

As a detective, Fusco thought he'd been pretty decent at all that crap. He called it street smarts, because you didn't learn it from books or police academy. You learned it because it was the sort of shit that kept you alive, reading a guy's mood, knowing if he was cool, or if he was pissed and ready to take a swing. And prison had only sharpened it for him-- time spent around Elias, watching the corners of his smile to see if Elias was really smiling or if it was that smile Elias gave when you were gettin' on his fucking nerves and he was considering making you a prison castrato.

Anyway, the point was, he couldn't read Mr. Finch's look, which was weird. Mr. Finch was an open book: rich enough to waste money on bird food; kind of a sucker; prissy; geeky; faggy. (Fusco had known plenty of guys who liked dick on the side. That was different than being a fag. With his little pink sweaters, and his manicured soft hands, and this _goddamned house_ which Reese sure as hell hadn't been the one to decorate, Mr. Finch fell into the latter category.)

Mr. Finch was not supposed to be hard to read.

Mr. Finch was still looking at him. Fusco cleared his throat.  
  
Mr. Finch asked, "You don't have a cell phone?" and yeah, shit, okay, everyone had cell phones, the 'I just moved' thing became the lame excuse that it obviously was if you took that into account.  
  
"I'm working on that," he said after a beat, and Mr. Finch smiled amiably and said, "Ah, well, do let me know once you have the number, then," and he said _sure, right, you bet_.

"See you tomorrow, Lionel," chirped Mr. Finch, and he made it out to his car with a second day's check in his wallet.

So probably half of that was gonna have to go to a new fuckin' phone, he thought with a sigh. Made it hard to save for the new place, but...

Baby steps. Baby steps every day. Twelve more days, until he got to see his son.

He drove back to the city with the sun in his eyes, but there were worse things.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey, Janet. It's me." Fusco paused, stared out his car's windshield a moment-- it was dusty, dirty, the morning sun caught the dust something awful, he should wash the car-- before continuing. "Just wanted to, uh, to check in...  
  
"I've got a job," he said. "Doing lawn work. I know, right? Pay's okay though. I, uh-- I guess you're probably getting ready for work. Sorry, I shoulda called last night, I guess. You can call me back, though-- oh, that's right, I've got a phone now--  
  
 _BEEP,_ went the messaging machine, and Fusco grimaced. He redialed, sat through Janet's answering machine message again.

"--yeah, sorry, got cut off. Anyway, my number is 516-733-8108, you-- I was thinking, you know, once Lee gets home, well, I'm hoping to have some things worked out, and I get that you want to make sure it's safe for him to be around me, so, you know, if you want to talk about things..."

He trailed off. Pathetic, basically begging his ex-wife to be allowed to see his own son. He could hear a voice that sounded a lot like Stills' saying: _fuck that, brother, you don't gotta explain yourself to that bitch, fuck her if she starts some shit, we can deal with her..._

But this was the cost. This was what he'd bought himself, with HR. It wasn't Janet's goddamn fault he'd fucked up his life.

He puffed up his cheeks with air, let it out, closed his eyes.  
  
"I dunno. Call me. Lunchtime's probably good."

He hung up. He stared out at the Y's parking lot, drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then turned the key in the ignition. Time to go to work.

***

The first thing he saw when he got to the house was that there was a little pile of sand or something on the driveway, where he'd parked the day before. He blinked at it as he eased his car up, brows beetled together in bemusement, until he remembered-- the oil puddle. His car had been leaking oil, got it onto their pristine fuckin' driveway, and-- great, Reese or Finch, one of the two, had _noticed,_ and given enough of a shit to come out and put sand on it to soak up the oil.

Which was worse? The idea of prim, diet-soda-sweet Finch being all _tut-tut_ over Fusco leaking on his driveway, or the idea of Reese grinning sadistically as he found something to dock him for, making a point to mention it to Finch? Fuuuck.

Fusco parked, and after some rummaging in his trunk he managed to find some rags. He threw them down under the engine.

It was Reese at the door again when he knocked. Stone-faced, dead-eyed motherfucker, one arm holding his crutch and the other holding his coffee.   
  
"Morning," said Fusco, neutrally, and Reese stepped back wordlessly to let him enter. Reese gestured with his coffee mug at the fridge and disappeared back into the living room without so much as a single word. That was fine with Lionel.

The fridge door sported the paper he'd vaguely noticed Finch putting up the day before. It was a grid-- a daily schedule. Okay, he could work with that too. Fusco tugged his reading glasses out of his collar and looked at the color-coded, spread-sheeted (spread-shat? Heh) chore regimen.

> _Mondays: Lawn - weed flowerbeds - external grounds as needed_
> 
> _Tuesdays: Laundry - dusting_
> 
> _Wednesdays: Sweep house - air rugs - bathroom_
> 
> _Thursdays: Kitchen - garbage - town errands_
> 
> _Fridays: (Miscellaneous as needed)_
> 
> _(Dishes - as needed)_
> 
> _(Exercise Bear - 2x / day minimum)..._

Routines were-- nice. Comforting, he might have said, but fuck that, this was a job, not group therapy. But it was handy to have it written out; this way he'd know if he needed a change of shirt for outdoor work, that sort of thing.

He could have asked Reese where he might find a broom. He looked for it instead.

***

Janet did call, during lunch. That was something Janet had always been good at: honoring obligations, taking care of her responsibilities.

Not his specialty.

Mr. Finch had sent him into town again for lunch-- apparently he hadn't been kidding, about them not using that goddamn gorgeous kitchen-- and Fusco was out on the porch, working on a burrito, when his phone rang.   
  
"Heya."  
  
"Hey. Bad time?"  
  
"Nah, this is good, I'm on my lunch."

"Mmn. So... yard work? Who the fuck has a _yard_ , in the city?"

Fusco found himself smiling, despite himself. It was... it was Janet, alright, but more, it was the Bronx, it was _home,_ after two years of gray walls and now his sudden transplanting to fuckin' Long Island Rich-ville for eight hours a day. Maybe they weren't friends, not really, but they weren't enemies either and he'd take what he could get.

"Not the city. I'm out on the goddamn island, real Hamptons-style shit."

" _You?_ 'Lionel Fusco,' you?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, _me._ They ain't thrown me out yet, thanks very much."

"Give it a week," she retorted, and his humor faded. He had a little over that left to go, and he thought Mr. Finch was pretty happy so far, but would that be enough? He rubbed his fingers on his jeans, stared out over the lawn.

"How's Lee?"

A little beat of silence. "He's doing good. Having a good time."  
  
"That's good. That's good." He took a breath, and when she said nothing, he said, "I wanna see him, Janet."

"Yeah. Well. Where are you staying, you crashing at a friend's or what?" There was an edge on 'friend's,' because Janet knew a lot of his friends from the old days.  
  
"No. No, I'm... right now, I'm at the YMCA, but--"  
  
"Lee's not visiting you at the goddamn YMCA, Lionel."  
  
He gritted his teeth against frustration, grabbed the edge of the patio table. "I _know_ that. I know that. I'm gonna get my own place."  
  
"Yeah? You're gonna make rent, on the bucks you get for pushing a lawn mower?"  
  
"I'm getting paid _good_. They're rich. Like I said, it's something out of the Hamptons."

There was a silence, and he could taste her skepticism. Hell, could be blame her? If he were in her shoes-- if he were in her shoes, the only thing he would've been able to believe of himself was that he'd run right back to HR, started taking his paycheck again in unmarked bills, thanks, and that any job he claimed to have would be nothing more than a cover. 'Yard work.' Yeah, _right_.

Janet heaved a sigh. "Lionel..."

He gripped the table til his knuckles hurt. Here he was, busting his _ass_ to do it right, do it clean-- scrubbing the bathroom floor for a couple of fags, and Lee was the reason for all of that and she wouldn't even goddamn _believe him?_

Anger was building in him, the sort of anger that led to throwing punches, the sort of anger that was a survival mechanism in prison because you had to show you weren't anybody's bitch or pussy, that you wouldn't roll over ('least, until you found the person in prison who you _would_ roll over for), that you'd defend yourself and make the other motherfucker regret it--

Screwed you over back in the world, though, because he knew, he _knew,_ he couldn't start yelling at Janet like he wanted to, couldn't let the obscenities start streaming out. He'd nuke everything if he did that. He'd never see Lee again, because as it stood, she was calling the shots, and what were his goddamn options? Go to court, sue for custody? Yeah, with his fucking personal fortune he had lying around to blow on lawyers, and it'd be money down the goddamn drain because what fucking judge would award him, the convicted felon, visitation rights?

Fuuuuuuck. He scraped his chair back; he stared up at the hot white summer sky.

"I'm telling the truth," he said dully, through a jaw aching with the words he was biting back.

"We'll talk when Lee gets home," she said, and he had to keep his mouth shut and take that bullshit.

Take it and _take_ it. Story of his fucking life.

***

He burned the anger off in work. He shook out every goddamn carpet he could find, beat the hell out of them with a broom. It was safer than a lot of other things he could've done.

After that he found some heavy-duty cleaner in the garage and he tackled the oil stain on the pavement. The sun hammered down on his shoulders and his neck as he scrubbed and scrubbed. The gritty, oily sand clung to his fingertips. There was a goddamn metaphor somewhere in there, he was pretty sure (all that time around Carl with his fuckin' teacher's streak had expanded his vocabulary pretty well), but he didn't feel like looking too close at it.

By the time the pavement was scoured clean, the anger was gone. Lionel rocked back on his heels and knees and used his shirt to wipe his face clean of sweat.

"Would you like some water?"

He nearly sprained something, scrambling up from his knees to his feet, trying to get back upright before the first punch hit--

\--it was only Mr. Finch, of course, and Fusco swore to himself, _get a fuckin' grip, asshole, this isn't prison, remember?_ Finch was there in the doorway, blinking at him (how the hell long had he been there?), a glass of ice water in one hand. He offered Finch an awkward, apologetic smile, a little wave with the dirty rags and brushes in his hand.  
  
"I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to startle you--"

"Nah, nah, 's alright, I was lost in thought, that's all. I, uh... yeah, water'd be great, thanks."

"Of course," murmured Mr. Finch, and limped forward to offer him the glass. It was fogged with condensation, ice cubes gently clinking, and Fusco was very conscious of his dirty fingers. He wiped them clean on the rags as best he could before taking the water.

It was cold, cold and _clean_ and he took a long, long drink of it. When he lowered the glass it was half-empty, and Mr. Finch was kinda staring.

"...thirstier than I realized, I guess," he said sheepishly. "That hit the spot. Thanks."

Finch didn't answer, just blinked at him like a spastic owl, so Fusco cast around a little desperately for something else to say. "--sorry about the driveway, it should be clean now. I think I got it all."  
  
"Hmn? Oh-- yes-- not to worry, these things happen-- it is rather warm out here, isn't it?"

Warm out here? Fusco could imagine the picture he made: sweating like a pig, his face and arms an ugly red from the heat and his lingering sunburn. _No shit, Sherlock._

He took the more tactful route. "Yeah. Well. Summer, you know?"

Mr. Finch had the good grace to look sheepishly aware of his own attempt at small talk, anyway. "--right," he said, and cleared his throat. "Right you are. Be sure to stay hydrated."

Lionel lifted the glass in answer and forced a smile. "Working on it."   
  
"That's good," Mr. Finch blurted, and then he-- there really wasn't a better word for it-- _scurried_ back into the house, shutting the front door after him a little hard. Fusco stared at the door a few seconds, bemused.   
  
"...what, do I smell that bad?" he asked his piece-of-shit car, which, unsurprisingly, didn't answer.

***

"...Harold?"  
  
"Mmn?"

"...what are you doing?"  
  
"Oh... just tweaking positions on some of the cameras..."  
  
"...to watch your houseboy."  
  
"--wellll, you did say we should keep a close eye on him..."  
  
"...not what I _meant,_ Harold."  
  
"The fact that _you_ don't appreciate the view doesn't mean _I_ have to abstain, _John."_

***

It was time to make friends with the damned dog.   
  
Fusco rummaged in the kitchen until he found the dog treats he'd bought. He went looking for the dog, who was curled up on the floor by Mr. Finch, in Mr. Finch's office.  
  
"Oh... hey. Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt, was just gonna take Bear out... you know, for a run..."

"You're not interrupting, Lionel," Mr. Finch said with his bright little smile. "Were you going to take him around the neighborhood, or just in the yard?"  
  
"Oh, uh..."  
  
"If in the neighborhood, it's probably best you put him on his leash. He's quite well-behaved, but he can look rather fierce, and the neighbors are rather more comfortable when he's on it... I told John to show you where Bear's leashes and toys are; did he?"

Man, it was so _tempting_ to rat the guy out. Take the high road, take the high road, don't pick fights...  
  
"Sure he did."

Mr. Finch brightened visibly, looked pleased as punch with that. "Oh good! I mean... well, anyway, Bear's just as happy to run in the yard, but I do like him to get a bit of socialization too. You might alternate. Bear, go with Lionel-- _voruit--"  
  
_ The dog got up, trotted over to him with nails clicking and looked up at him expectantly: _okay, mister, ball's in your court..._  
  
Fusco took a breath, reached down and offered the dog his hand, then gingerly petted the blunt, fuzzy skull. The dog tolerated it.

"What's that you said to him?"

"--oh, I'm sorry-- it's Dutch, he was trained with Dutch commands. I should probably write those out for you."  
  
"Nah, no, don't bother. Dutch? Why Dutch?"  
  
"It's a military thing, I think. He's John's dog."

 _So I've been told._ "Well, long as he likes to chase a ball, I think we'll figure it out."  
  
Mr. Finch gave him the small bright smile again, and Fusco took a few testing steps out into the hall. Bear followed.

Cool. Wasn't so hard.

Fusco had never had a dog, never really been around them much either. He was city through and through: dogs were for people who had goddamn yards. He remembered asking his dad, once, for Christmas, just the once. His father had given him a long and tired look, home after twelve hours at the factory, grease still in his clothing, and said, _Don't be goddamn stupid, Lionel,_ and he'd never asked again.

Funny, he thought, but the most experience he had of dogs was the K-9s. Well, maybe that was an advantage. Bear sure as fuck wasn't some toy poodle.

"C'mon, Bear," he said, and it wasn't in Dutch but the dog seemed to get what he meant, anyway.

He found the leashes and toys on his own: in a basket next to one of the doors that led outside, a wicker basket shaped like a bone (who owned shit like that? Right, Mr. Finch did). He picked out a tennis ball that already showed some signs of being chewed on.

It was late afternoon. The grass stretched out forever under a blue sky, bluer than you ever got in the city. He gave the dog a treat, held his breath while those big white teeth were close to his fingers, but he got nothing more than sloppy tongue and the dog wagging its tail.

He thought about his son, about how many times he'd have to mow the lawn to afford a place with a yard, a place that could have a dog that Lee could play with. Didn't have to be a yard like this, or a dog like this. Just a little something...

He threw the ball. It hung in the summer sky, for several seconds, only to drop down-down-down to the dog's jaws. Bear ran back to him, dropped the ball at his feet, and he chuckled and picked it up again, threw it again.

Janet was tomorrow's problem. Reese was tomorrow's problem, too. For now, he thought, it was a pretty good day.


	9. Chapter 9

Thursday, and he cleaned the kitchen. It wasn't too dirty: the stove had none of the spatters and stains of regular use. He swept and then he mopped, regardless of whether the floor strictly needed it, and he scrubbed the sink, cleaned the brass faucet til it gleamed.

Reese had the door to the living room open, the sounds of the TV soft-- sounded like ESPN. Fusco listened with half an ear to the game recaps as he went through the fridge. Not a lot in the way of leftovers that needed trashing, though he did find some sad-looking vegetables that reminded him of his own fridge, back in the days he'd had one: the vegetables that you bought once a blue moon, determined to cook and eat healthy and shit, and then a month later you opened the crisper and were like, _Oh, yeah..._

He tossed them out. Took everything out, wiped down the inside of the fridge with a cloth while he listened to whose ass the Yankees had kicked last night. Fuckin' Yankees.

Finch wandered in about ten in the morning, yawning. "Oh, good morning, Lionel."

"Morning, Mr. Finch," he said as he put things back in the fridge. "Sorry. Harold."

The guy had bed-head still, and was wearing a pair of sweats, a gray t-shirt, some moccasin-style slippers. He stood there blinking in a friendly fashion at at Fusco.  
  
"Hrm, could I trouble you to hand me the bread from inside the fridge? I'll just make a bit of toast and be out of your way..."

"You want some toast?" Fusco answered. "Don't bother yourself, I got it."

"Oh no, you're busy, really, I can..."  
  
"I'm done with the fridge already, this is gonna be a light day. Sit down, Mr. Finch, let me earn my pay, okay?"

Mr. Finch blinked at him a few times more then smiled and shrugged and limped for the kitchen table. "That's very kind of you."  
  
"Nah, you're paying me. I'm squeezing in a few more minutes on the clock," Fusco half-joked, only half because it was the truth, and he got out bread, and butter, and held up the jam enquiringly.  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
"Coffee? OJ?"

"I usually have tea."  
  
Tea. Of course Mr. Finch had tea. Fusco filled the copper teapot up under the sink and put it on to boil. Finch directed him to the cupboard that held the mugs, the tea and the sugar.  
  
"Toast gonna be enough for you? I could whip up some eggs or something, easy."

"Goodness, I feel very spoiled. I think just toast for now, but thank you."

Shame. He wouldn't have minded getting to try out the range for more than boiling water, but, whatever. He popped in the bread, and went back to wiping down the fridge. Mr. Finch was watching, so he was glad he'd been thorough so far, and now he got the chance to show off how thorough, as he went through wiping off every bottle.

"I threw out some lettuce you had, some other stuff-- it looked kinda wilted. You want me to pick up fresh stuff when I go in?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid we do tend to forget things in there. Some fresh fruit might not go amiss. I keep meaning to make salads, but..."

"I know the feeling," Lionel answered. He fell silent a few moments, wiping out the crisper drawer. He took a breath, then, what the hell:

"Y'know, if you wanted, I could make a salad or something, sometime-- like, if you guys are starving, you don't wanna wait for me to run into town, I can probably throw something together. You got some nice cuts of meat in the freezer."

There was beat of silence behind him, then Finch said, very dry, very wry, "Yes, those are Bear's."

….fuck him, they fed the dog steak. They fed... the dog... steak. He stared into the fridge for a few moments, forgetting what he was doing.

Mr. Finch cleared his throat. He sounded defensive when he stuck on, "Er, not all the _time,_ just-- a special treat, sometimes..."

The toaster dinged. Fusco turned toward it gratefully, and reached for the butter.

He handed the buttered-and-jammed toast over to Finch on a little plate, staring down at it and wishing _he_ had toast. The Y's freebie breakfast had toast, but it was those dollar loaves where the bread couldn't even stand up to margarine on its own and tore into shreds when you tried it-- Mr. Finch obviously splurged on the good stuff, like everything else in his house, and the toast looked fucking amazing.

(Even better with an egg or two, he thought, some bacon, not too crispy, maybe a little dish of cottage cheese, and some peaches..)

"I certainly don't want to add to your workload," Mr. Finch was saying, and he looked up blinking from the toast.

"No, I wouldn't mind," he said. "I mean, I feel guilty, eating out on your dime every day, so, I'm either gonna start bringing my own lunches, or, I can cook lunch every now and then, so I'm not being a mooch."

"We _are_ paying you, I doubt you qualify as a 'mooch' in any case..."

"Okay, whatever you say, but look-- today, for instance. You got me down for kitchen and trash," Lionel said, resting his hands on his side of the granite counter, while Finch delicately nibbled his toast on the other side. "Your kitchen's practically clean anyway, I can't see more than an hour, maybe two, working on it regularly. Trash is gonna take me another hour, at most. If I throw in a meal on the slow days, I feel I'm earning my pay a little more, that's all."

Mr. Finch looked thoughtful. "I suppose I hadn't realized how slim the schedule is on Thursdays. I certainly don't want you to have to drive out here for two hours' work and nothing.. more..."

He nodded as Finch got it. More selfishly, he didn't want to lose out on the pay from not getting in those extra hours. "Do you guys eat out for all your suppers, too?"

Mr. Finch waved the piece of toast in a kinda-sorta gesture. "Often, it's leftovers from lunch, but yes, we frequently go into town for an evening meal, too."

Must be nice to have that sort of cash to burn, Fusco thought. Aloud, he said, "Okay, so what about this: Thursdays, or any day when it's real slow, I can cook some stuff, things that'd freeze well-- that way, you guys can pop 'em out, nuke 'em or warm 'em in the oven, whatever-- you have good homemade food with all the prep done for you, I feel like I'm actually getting something done, you guys save a few bucks on the dining front."

Finch smiled, a small little quirk of his lips, and Fusco felt dumb. Yeah, like _saving-a-few-bucks_ was a priority for them.

But what Mr. Finch said was, "Well, I'm certainly amenable to the experiment, Lionel. Do you have any specialty dishes with which you might amaze us?"

Lionel couldn't help a little grin at Finch, across the counter. "Well, not to brag, but Momma Fusco taught her boy a mean lasagne."

Mr. Finch smiled-- not the bright, polite little smile that he'd come to associate with the other guy, but something more... fun, he guessed, something that actually hit his eyes behind the thick black rims of his glasses. "Consider my interest piqued."

He gave the guy a thumbs-up and turned back to the cupboards. "Let me see what ingredients I'd need. There's nothing you guys don't eat, right? Like, nobody's kosher or anything?"

"No restrictions, no. I think you'll find our tastes are quite... broad."

The only pasta he could find was some spaghetti noodles unopened in the package. Good luck finding ricotta or spinach, and the ground beef in the freezer was apparently _the fucking dog's,_ so...

"Yeah, I'll need to make a store run," he said, turning back around to look at Finch, who was nibbling the last of the toast while still looking at him, almost-- expectantly? Fusco felt a moment's hang-up-- had Finch asked him something while he was hunting through the cupboards? He ran the tape player back in his head-- no, no question he could remember--

"Uh, is that okay?"

"Oh, certainly-- go ahead and get whatever you need."

Fusco shook it off and threw a glance down at his watch. Not quite eleven. Plenty of time to get groceries and still have lunch by a reasonable time. They had late lunches anyway.

"Kay. Anything else you guys need while I'm there?"  
  
"I can't think of anything," Mr. Finch said to him with a smile, and through the open door that led to the living room, the voices of the ESPN guys kept going, going.

***

He thought about Reese as he drove back down into Moneyville (suburb of Richlandia, USA). He'd gone the whole day without a word from the guy so far, and as far as Fusco was concerned, that was fine. If this was the normal state of affairs-- him ignoring Reese, Reese ignoring him-- that was _great._

But could it hold?

Fusco was pretty sure he had Mr. Finch all but won over. And if he didn't yet, then he was pretty sure that after Finch had the convenience of a couple of home meals, he'd be a lock. And Finch was the important one. It was his money, and he was in charge. So Reese might pout and bitch, but Fusco had long ago learned you went to the top. Goodwill on the ground was valuable too, sure, but the boss came first.

Still, what were the odds Reese was going to make his life hell once that leg healed? Fusco drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he hunted through the cutesy streets for a parking place.

Hell. He could deal with it either way. Reese wanted to fuck with him? He'd be a rock, he'd let it wash over him like the noise from the crazy ones in the joint. He'd stick it out, head down, until Reese got bored and they could settle into ignoring each other as a default. Maybe Reese already had the worst of it out of his system.

Whatever the fuck the guy's problem was, Fusco was pretty sure it didn't really have a lot to do with him. He was just the closest available target.

He saw a parking spot-- zipped in and took it, confident, feeling good about small victories. Lasagne could be a victory, if you had the right fucking attitude.

...Sounded like something Carl would have said, he thought to himself with a snort as he headed inside the store. Except without the profanity.

It was an experience, doing a grocery run with _buy whatever you need_ rattling around in his head, and cash from Finch in his pocket. He gravitated, like he always had, to the cheap meat: he was cutting it up for a ragu anyway, so it didn't need to be too fancy, and then he realized there was no cheap meat because this was an upscale place with a proper deli and seriously, why not, why not splurge a little? He was cooking for fancy people: cook fancy.

He spent close to a hundred dollars on ingredients for lasagne, and a lot of the basics that weren't at the house: good spices were never cheap, but they were an investment. The number would have freaked him out more, he thought, if not for the knowing that Finch had spent over that amount on lunch in two days' time.

Not to say it didn't still freak him out some.

Finch had said _whatever,_ though, and he intended to use that as his defense.

He parked in the back, by the garage, so that his crap Toyota wasn't the first thing someone saw if they came calling, and so that he didn't risk getting oil onto the pristine front drive again. Arms loaded with groceries, he made his way to the back door. Nearly fucking dropped everything on the ground, too, trying to get the door open without letting go of anything.

Mr. Finch and the boyfriend were both in the kitchen, looking his way when he came in; he guessed they'd heard the door. He had the impression he'd walked into a conversation, maybe an argument, the way they were facing each other, silent because of his entrance.

"Uh. Hey," he said, and started putting the groceries down on the counter. Mr. Finch gave him the polite smile.

"Goodness. All of that, to make lasagne?"

His tone was not accusatory, but Fusco rubbed defensively at the back of his neck anyway. "Well... you have to have a lot of the basic kitchen stuff, you know? Olive oil, cooking wine-- you buy it once, you're good for the month but--"

"But our kitchen was lacking in these necessities," Mr. Finch said with a mild smile, and Fusco nodded.

"I've got your change. And the receipt, if you want to make sure that--"

"I believe you, Lionel," Mr. Finch said with a certain emphasis that Fusco felt was more for Reese's benefit than for his. Great, so: the guy was calling him a thief. Fusco shot him a sidelong glance: Reese was leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring into the middle distance.

"--I got one more bag to get from the car," he said, and took himself out of the room, back to the laundry room and the door outside.

He opened it, stepped outside, shut it, firmly. Nice and loud. And then he turned the knob careful-quiet, eased the door back open a few inches. No squeak to the hinges, not in this house.

Silent, no sound from the kitchen: maybe he'd been wrong, maybe they weren't talking about him at all--

No, there was Finch clearing his throat...

"As I've said: I would really prefer to see out the two weeks. Can you give it that long? Please?"

"I'm not going to change my mind, Harold."

A sigh. Mr. Finch sounded tired. "Not if you're determined not to, of course you're not. Well, as I told you at the start: if you're not happy, we don't hire him. That hasn't changed."

"Then stop trying to _make_ me be happy about it."  
  
A rustle of cloth from the kitchen area, maybe Finch sitting down. "He's really very sweet."

"Christ, Harold-- he's _sucking up_ to you."

A chair screeched across the floor. "Let's not discuss it right now. He'll be back inside any moment."

There was no verbal answer, but he heard the clump of Reese's crutches heading closer, and Fusco hurriedly eased the door shut again, jogged towards his car with his teeth gritted.

Well, _fuck._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which your author is hungry

Fusco got out to the car, stuck his head inside, and gripped the back of the seat, staring at the last bag of groceries sitting on the passenger side.

Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Shit.

\--goddammit, he wanted the job. Maybe he hadn't realized how bad he wanted it, but the knowledge he _wasn't going to get it_ was like a punch in the gut. The stupid fear came rushing back: he wouldn't be able to find anything, any place that would hire him, he'd be _fucked,_ working minimum-wage jobs for the rest of his damn _life,_ working a fucking 7-11 and never again making enough money to be able to afford a place nice enough for Lee to spend the night, in a neighborhood where he was _okay_ with Lee spending the night, and the only alternative was back with the sharks, back into the blood--

"Shit," he wheezed. "Shit god _damn,_ Fusco, breathe, you stupid fuck."

He scrubbed at his face with his palm. All that too-good-to-be-true stuff Mr. Finch had offered: a _salary,_ weekends _off--_ it was evaporating like the water off the lawn. But that wasn't any reason to have a goddamn freak-out, he was a grown _fucking_ man, a fucking ex-cop for fuck's sake, so get your shit _together,_ Fusco.

He dropped into the driver's seat and stared out at the endless green lawn. What the _hell_ was Reese's problem? Seriously, had he fucked the guy over in a past life? In this life? Given the guy a parking ticket as a rookie?

Fusco slammed his fists against the hard rubber of the steering wheel a few times, until it hurt. He leaned his head back into the seat.

The conclusion didn't take too long in coming, because, really, it wasn't a complex conclusion. Point the first: Reese had to like him for him to get the job. Point the second: there weren't any second points.

He had to make Reese like him. Somehow.

 _"Fuck,"_ Fusco said one more time, for good measure, then grabbed the last bag and headed back inside.

***

Reese was nowhere to be seen when he got back in the kitchen, but the sounds of ESPN were coming from the open doorway again. Mr. Finch was... plugging in his laptop at the counter.  
  
"Do you mind if I watch you work?"

He blinked, shifted the bag of groceries arm-to-arm. "...sure?" _You're the boss, boss._

Mr. Finch smiled and nodded like he'd done him some kind of personal favor. Great. Fusco emptied the bag onto the counter and started hunting for a pot. There was a big copper one in a lower cupboard, shiny-clean and mirror-bright.

"...you ever even use this?" he asked as he flipped it over in his hands.  
  
"Not that I can recall," Mr. Finch said. Of course not.

He threw in some olive oil, some butter. Got out the cutting board (barely used, by the look of it). The knives in the block were factory-sharp.

Celery. Onions. Garlic. Washed off, peeled... The knife rose and fell, easy in his hand. Nice. Nice balance. Long time since he'd done this. He stared down at the board filling with tiny chunks of celery, thinking, trying to remember the last time.

Before prison, of course. He hadn't usually bothered cooking for just himself, back in the day. Dinner for himself was take-out, something snagged on his way home. It took too fuckin' long to cook when you were tired from twelve hours at the precinct or in a cop car.

But Lee... when his son had been visiting... then, it was worth it, to bust out his cast-iron skillet (the one with the grease all but seared into the metal), to pull out the plastic cutting board (cut-up-to-hell, stained no matter how you scrubbed it), and fry up home-made hamburger patties with the big onion chunks and the shredded cheese cooked right in...

Where _was_ all his cooking shit, anyway? Storage, he supposed. He'd boxed a lot of it up once he'd known he was going to prison.

The onions were pricking his eyes. Fusco dug out a stainless steel spoon from the drawer and washed his hands off, rubbing his fingers against the metal.

"Does that actually work?"

He started-- he'd half forgot Mr. Finch was there, lost to the rhythm of cutting and his own memories. He looked over to see Finch staring at him over the laptop, his brows arched inquisitively.

"Huh?"

"The spoon. I always took it for an urban myth."

"Oh. Yeah. Uh, kinda," Lionel said with a clearing of his throat. "I mean, it helps gets the smell off your hands. It won't stop you crying from the initial cutting, though. 'S cuz these enzymes in the onion, when you cut the onion they get released, and they mix with water, even the water in your eyes, and it makes sulfuric acid. Crazy, right?"

Mr. Finch's brows lifted slowly, the guy clearly taken aback, and Fusco rubbed at the back of his neck. _Keep your mouth shut, moron._

"--that's what this guy I know told me, anyway. He liked to cook. We'd talk about food a lot."

"Sounds like a smart fellow."

"Smartest guy I ever met," Fusco said, and that was true. He scraped the contents of the cutting board into the pot, into the hot oil and butter. He checked the heat to make sure they weren't going to burn, just a nice slow cook until they were clear and butter-soft.

Damned if he wasn't going to cook the _hell_ out of this. They did say the way to a guy's heart was through his stomach. He didn't give a shit about Reese's heart, but if ragu sauce could make the guy not want to kill him, he'd make a fucking ragu sauce to make the angels weep.

Mr. Finch worked on his computer, soft typing noises in the background as Lionel dumped ground veal, pork, and pancetta into the pot. Good meat, high quality, the stuff he'd never shell out for for himself, not even for Lee, because he loved his son, sure, but Lee didn't need _USDA Prime,_ okay.

Tomato paste, milk, the cooking wine... he could pour a glass, he thought. Little bit to sip at while he cooked... calm the tight ball of angry nerves in his gut... Yeah, no, better not.

"You said your mother taught you to cook?" came Finch's voice, and this time he didn't jump. That was progress, he guessed.

"Uh, yeah." If he started the noodles now they'd be done way too early... gotta give the sauce time to get thick and rich. He could work on the salad instead. "She liked to make big meals, I think she wound up feeding half the kids in the neighborhood sometimes. Nothing fancy, you know, just comfort food crap."

"Like lasagne. Italian food, then?"

Spinach, lettuce-- cutting board was gonna get a lot of use today. "Sure. Some. She wasn't Italian, but she cooked it as good as any _nonna_ on Mulberry Street."

"Oh? Fusco's an Italian name, though, isn't it?"

"Mm-hm. My dad. I guess she learned how to do pasta for him. You know, make his favorite dishes, all that."

"That's quite romantic," said Mr. Finch, and Fusco shot him a sidelong glance over his shoulder. Mr. Finch was resting his chin on his hand, had a little smile on his face.

 _Sure, romantic-as-fuck, what with the screaming matches and the broken plates._ Yeah. There was stuff you didn't need to tell the buddy-boss and puncture his naïve little bubble. Lionel cleared his throat.

"Yup. Happy home. Good food."

The sounds of the sports broadcast from the next room increased in volume. Golf, for fuck's sake. Fusco saw Mr. Finch's eyes dart towards the open door, saw the small sigh and tiny sag of the man's shoulders.

Yeah. Well. Sucked to be him, and have a bitch for a boyfriend. Fusco found a bowl for the salad.

***

Mr. Finch helped him set the table, despite his protestations. And that meant fancy, like everything else in Finch's Long Island world: plates _and_ saucers _and_ bowls and actual salad forks and every other fucking thing. Fusco squinted at the inlaid pattern on one of the plates-- was that fucking _gold?_...no... maybe?-- as he laid it out.

"...Nice dishes," he said, and Finch glanced up from the other side of the table.

"Thank you."

"...family china?" he hazarded, and Finch's little smile flickered just a bit. (Oh, shit, what if he was estranged from his family or some crap--?)

"I'm afraid nothing so sentimental. I saw them and liked them. Like the pots and pans, we don't... really have an excuse to use them, much."

"What, you don't wanna dish General Tso's chicken onto these?" Fusco couldn't help but ask, with a brow arch and a waggle of a plate that cost God-knew-how-fucking-much. Finch laughed, like he was supposed to-- good, great, he'd landed a joke that didn't make Finch stare at him like he had a second head, that counted as a point--

\--except, he remembered, it didn't _matter._ He could score points with Finch 'til the sky turned green. It was Reese he needed to be working on.

"So we're ready to eat?" he asked, as Mr. Finch fussed with a napkin. The man straightened up, looked at him with the light flashing off his glasses.

"I think, as the chef, that's rather up to you."

Right. Yeah. Showtime. "Uh, yeah. You wanna call in John, then, and I'll start... serving it up."

They settled around one end of the too-big dining table, with Finch at the head, Reese on one side of him with his crutches leaned against a china cabinet, and Fusco on the other. Finch as the buffer, Lionel thought. Great idea, though it did leave him and Reese looking right at each other.  
  
"This smells spectacular, Lionel, thank you again," said Mr. Finch as he tucked in a napkin, prim and proper.

"You're welcome, my pleasure," Lionel answered as he dished lasagne onto each fancy plate. Reese had his hands flat on the table and was looking from dish to dish as if he was trying to figure out which one of them had the razor blade in it.

Lasagne with three-meat ragu, a green salad, radishes-and-peppers grilled in the oven with plenty of butter, and-- of course-- the bread. Nice baguette from the store, garlic and yet more butter soaked into the bread. Mr. Finch had produced a dusty bottle of red wine from a cupboard, wine that was way beyond the cooking wine he'd thrown in, and Fusco caught himself glancing at the bottle here and there.

It wasn't really proper Italian without a glass of red, was it. And Jesus, if anyone deserved a drink... he'd been busting his balls in the kitchen the last two hours putting a proper meal together for a couple of fag millionaires (okay, a fag millionaire and his anti-social boytoy) as his last-ditch effort to get the job-- fuck if he wasn't entitled to one glass.

Except it wouldn't be one glass, he knew that. And Lee was nine days away.

So when Finch uncorked the bottle and reached for his glass, he put a hand over the top. "Thanks, but I'd better not."

There was a moment's silence. Finch arched a single brow at him, and he was pretty sure Reese was Watching Him, too, but after a second or two Finch merely nodded, moved on to Reese's glass instead.

Fusco sat. Everyone had a plateful of food. There was the width of a table between him and Reese in case Reese decided to go for his throat with the salad fork. He could feel like he was hot moral shit (...okay, that sounded wrong) for having turned down a glass of wine. Good enough.

"Should we have a toast?" said Mr. Finch, looking inquisitively at them both, and he almost laughed aloud. Yeah, that was a great idea. Him with nothing in his glass, Reese who hadn't said a word since he'd sat down... real fucking convivial atmosphere.

He shrugged. Reese said nothing. Mr. Finch looked at each of them in turn and deflated a bit.  
  
"Well. Here's to this splendid-looking meal, anyway," Finch sighed, and toasted in mid-air.

Fusco started with his salad, eyes darting up to Reese between bites. (His salad was good. Nice to know he hadn't lost his touch, he guessed. Not that salads were hard. But it made a good complement to the heavy lasagne: spinach and Romaine, fresh strawberries, homemade mayonnaise-sugar-poppy dressing. The strawberries were good, market fresh, better than he could have or would have gotten in the city. Eh. Maybe at Greenmarket, if you got lucky and were there at the ass-crack of dawn...)

Reese was cutting into his lasagne with mechanical motions, knife-knife-knife, fork-fork-fork. Reese looked the way he usually looked: neat-dressed (polo, khakis), clean-shaven, unsmiling, a hint of strain at his mouth and eyes like he was perpetually passing a gallstone or some shit.

 _Hey, jackass, it's lunch, not a war zone,_ he wanted to say, but of course he didn't.

He'd had a lot of opportunity to study the geekier half of the equation the last few days, but less to study Reese. At first glance, they both dressed well, but Fusco thought, there was a big difference in it. Mr. Finch cared about how he looked, planned out a fucking wardrobe for a day that consisted of nothing but sitting around at home, because Mr. Finch was a goddamn little peacock.

Whereas Reese's polo shirts were just kinda... there. Interchangeable. They were nice enough. They weren't wrinkled. They were probably expensive. But he bet that Reese didn't debate over which one to pull out and wear in the morning, he just grabbed the first one in the drawer, or whatever. (Probably Finch had bought them for him.)

Made sense in an ex-soldier, but it just didn't add up. What was an ex-soldier hardass doing with a sissy like Finch? They were a weird fucking couple. Rich daddy and his pretty-boy held true on the surface, maybe, but Reese clearly had enough clout in the relationship to put his foot down regarding one Lionel Fusco. Not as simple as he'd first pegged things.

Reese took a bite of the pasta, and Fusco watched as Reese's brows lifted involuntarily. Tiny, brief flicker of food-bliss over his face-- _score--_ and Reese's eyes slid shut as he slowly chewed his mouthful of pasta and ricotta and from-scratch ragu.

 _That's right, you surly pain-in-the-ass, it tastes good. Eat my goddamn food and like it. _  
  
Mr. Finch cleared his throat, and Fusco became aware he was basically staring at Reese eating. He hurriedly shifted his attention back to his own plate.

"These vegetables are quite nice, Lionel, very tender and flavorful-- this is what you were doing with the foil?"

"Yeah, uh, you can grill 'em too like that, that's good, but-- I don't think you guys have a barbecue?"

"Mmm, no, we've been remiss on that front."

"Yeah, they're kind of a pain, aren't they? But the nice thing is you can just do it in the oven too, fold your foil over nice and tight. Toss all sorts of vegetables in there. I kept it simple today-- radishes, bell peppers, onions... zucchini's good like that, though, and even tomatoes."

"Perhaps you'll have to grace us with the zucchini version at some point?"  
  
 _I think that's up to your boyfriend if I'll be around for that,_ he thought, but what he said was, "Yeah, sure, whenever you'd like."

Mr. Finch beamed at him. "Very kind of you. John? Are you enjoying your food?"

Reese looked up warily, like he'd been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. His eyes darted to Fusco, back to his boyfriend, to Fusco again. He cleared his throat.

"It's not bad."

 _Yeah? 'Not bad'? Fuck you right in your lying fucking eye socket, asshole,_ Fusco thought to himself, while he offered the guy a broad smile across the table.

"Not everyone likes Italian. What's your poison, John?" Funny, he had no problems using the guy's first name, not like with Mr. Finch. Of course, he was kinda using it as a weapon, so that made it different. Little emphasis on it, look how fucking _buddy-buddy_ we are. "Let me guess, you're a steak guy?"

Reese pulled back slightly in the chair, eyes narrowing a fraction. "Not really."

From the corner of his eye he saw Finch shooting an irritated look Reese's direction, but whatever, he already knew the guy was full of shit. "Okay, not steak," he continued with aggressive cheer. "Fish? You like a good salmon? I do. Rub some spices on that, sear it in the pan, that sound good?"

Reese shrugged. His voice was that same soft monotone you had to strain to catch. "That's alright."

Fusco ratcheted his smile a little bigger. "Jeez, tough crowd. Not steak, not fish... Nice honey-glazed ham? Pork loin? Chicken alfredo? Cuz I do a great fuckin' alfredo, pardon my French, come on, tell me what you _want."_

Reese stared at him across the table, wordless, dark-eyed, one hand clenched on the table's edge. In his peripheral vision he saw Finch's head ping-ponging between them. Fusco became aware that he was leaning forward in his own space, hands formed into tight balls on either side of his plate.

Finch cleared his throat. "Those all sound _splendid,_ Lionel, thank you, but one thing at a time, I think."

Fusco made himself breathe out, sink back into his own chair. "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry, I get, uh, passionate about food."

"Nothing wrong with a little passion," Mr. Finch said with the bright, fixed smile that seemed to accompany so goddamn many of his words. Lionel nodded, and ran a hand through his hair, and picked up his fork again. He couldn't remember at what point he'd put it down.

On the other side of the table, Reese was back to mechanically cutting-and-chewing, cutting-and-chewing, staring at a spot on the far wall with his own wine untouched.

Lionel took a depressed bite of his own pasta. At least, he thought, he'd gotten a great last meal out of the fucking deal.


	11. Chapter 11

The rest of dinner... went. Fusco guessed that was about all he could say for it. Mr. Finch did most of the talking, asking about the food (despite having sat there and watched him cook most of it), what spices he'd used, and was this a dish his mother had taught him, too?

He wanted to tell the guy not to fucking bother. Hearing about Momma Fusco wasn't gonna melt Reese's shitty heart. Whatever, though. Let Finch talk. Didn't make a goddamn difference.

Reese cleaned his plate. Fusco would have felt good about that if he thought there were still any point.

And after he cleaned his plate, Reese got up, took his plate into the kitchen, and two minutes later the sounds of the TV in the other room kicked back on.

Mr. Finch sat there a moment in silence, gazing at the doorway Reese had disappeared through, wine glass suspended in one hand.

Couple of days ago he might have said _Hey, it'll all work out._ Today? Fuck it. Lionel got to his feet and started collecting the rest of the dishes. 

"...do you need any help?" Mr. Finch asked.

"Nope." Sigh. He should probably still play nice. "Thanks, though. You, uh, you just.... sit tight. Relax. Or... go watch some TV with your boyfriend, whatever. I got this."

By Finch's look, he guessed the guy wasn't a sports fan.

Fusco offered him a crooked grin. "No, really. I'll clean up. That's what you're paying me for, right?"  _For a little longer, anyway._

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Finch said. "I... I''ll be in the office, if you need anything."

"You got it, boss," he said, and took his stack of dishes into the kitchen.

He did the dishes. There was a lot of leftover pasta. He covered the dish with foil, stuck it in the freezer-- the happy fuckin' couple could nuke it for lunch sometime down the road. Whatever.

Kitchen. Trash. He collected the trash from the laundry room, the kitchen, the bathrooms-- the door to the master bedroom was still shut. Well, he wasn't going in there, thanks. He rapped at the office door.

"Yes?"

"You got any trash in there you need me to take out?"

"Oh-- yes, give me a moment--"

He waited, feeling the air conditioning in the hall blowing cool on the back of his neck.

Finch opened the door, holding a plastic bag with a bunch of shredded paper in it. "Thank you."  
  
"Yeah. Sure. What about the bedroom? Master bath? Anything else I should get?"  
  
Finch blinked at him from behind his glasses. "Ah yes, good thinking. One moment..."  
  
He waited some more, leaned against the hallway wall, staring at the painting on the opposite wall. No, not a painting. What'd they call that? A print? Lithosomething? Whatever. It was a bird, anyway, a... goose? A Canada goose? Its head turned around, beady eye looking right at him. 

He flipped the bird the bird. It suited his mood.

Mr. Finch reappeared in the bedroom door with a few more plastic bags. He had a brief glimpse of the bedroom beyond (huge-fucking-bed, lots of antique-looking furniture) before Finch shut the door after him with his usual fixed smile.

"Here we are."

"Great. Thanks."

He took the bags. Finch waited for him to move back down the hall. He didn't.

"So, uh... not to put you on the spot or anything, Mr. Finch--"

"Harold."  
  
"Harold. Right. Anyway... so, we're nearly done with the first week..."  
  
Finch looked like he'd really prefer not to be having this conversation. Tough. Fusco didn't want to be having it either.

"...you think this is gonna work, or not?" he asked.

Mr. Finch sighed. He took off his glasses, plucked his paisley pocket-square out of his breast pocket, and set to polishing the lenses. Fusco supposed that was all the answer he needed, really, but... while there was life there was hope, or some shit like that.

"I really couldn't say right now," Mr. Finch said, and Fusco resisted the urge to call him on his polite bullshit. _You mean you_ _won't_ _say, pal._ He said nothing, though, and Finch fidgeted.

"Lionel-- Mr. Fusco-- you've worked very hard. I don't want you to think I haven't noticed that. If the quality of your work were the only concern..."  
  
He held up his hands to stop Mr. Finch. "Hey, you don't gotta worry about sparing my feelings, here. John doesn't like me, that's the issue. Right?"

Another sigh. "That is a... succinct summation, yes."

Fusco pursed his lips and nodded. After a few seconds, he shrugged. Not like it was news to him, he'd known it was coming. "Alright. Well. Sorry to interrupt whatever it is you were doing."

He turned on his heel with the garbage in hand, and imagined he felt Mr. Finch's eyes on him all the way back down the hall, but Mr. Finch didn't say anything, and he didn't look back.

Back in the kitchen, he gathered the trash bags together. He could hear the incessant buzz of the TV through the open door leading to the room where Reese was camped out, getting his sulk on.

Fusco set the trash back down and moved to the open doorway, rapping at the frame.  
  
Reese was on the couch, his profile to Fusco, crutches leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the TV's screen. He had the non-cast leg up, with his foot hooked in one of those rubber-band things, extending his leg, getting his work-out while on the couch, apparently.

"Hey," said Lionel, since knocking hadn't gotten Reese to look up. Reese darted a look his way, grunted something that might have been _what?_

"Got any trash in here?"

Reese studied him a few seconds (come on, fucker, it was a yes-or-no question), then pointed with his chin at a trash can in the corner. The guy wanted to go non-verbal, sucked to be him, because Fusco had made up his mind and goddammit he was going to get five fucking words out of the guy if it killed him. So he offered Reese a smile, moved into the room and past Reese for the trash, took his time getting the bag out of the can.

The TV was a Knicks game. Fusco flicked glances at it as he dug out the trash. Knicks vs Heat, that'd be a good game to watch if he wasn't working.

"Knicks up?"

Reese grunted something maybe-affirmative.

"Go, New York," Lionel said as he pulled out the plastic bag. "You catch last night's game? The Celtics vs the Cavs? I got it on the radio driving back to the city, caught some of the highlights on replay later. Pierce dropped more three-pointers than Carter's got liver pills."

Reese's eyes cut sideways to him again, annoyed. Finch wasn't here to step in, though. So Lionel kept talking, even as he spun the bag sideways and knotted the plastic. He kept his tone even, though, not the challenge he'd thrown at him during the meal.

"Look. I get it. You don't want me here," he said, letting his eyes wander to the TV screen. "What I can't figure is why. I dunno what I've done to you. Not saying I've never made any enemies, but I don't know _you_ from Adam. So. You can tell me what your beef is, or we can talk about sports like any two guys who might run into each other at the bar and shoot the shit, yeah? I'm making the effort here, buddy."

Reese put the exercise band down and looked at him, fully looked at him, with a not-very-nice smile. There was a little wave of one hand that might have meant, _please, do go on._

Fine. He went on-- stubbornly, stupidly, Stills had always said that he just didn't know when to stop, sometimes--

"Can't say I'm really a big basketball guy, I like it okay. Football or hockey, though. Or baseball. That's the holy three for me. Sometimes I watch college wrestling, or boxing."

Reese just watched him. Silently. Fusco huffed out a breath. "Work with me here. Come on, it means you can tell Harold you really tried, you get brownie points with your boyfriend. What do you like to watch?"

The nasty smirk on Reese's face increased a fraction. Fine. Fine. _Fuck_ it. Fusco shook his head, shrugged, and started back into the kitchen.

He didn't get far. Reese-- _Jesus_ he was fast-- Reese snatched a crutch from its position against the wall, swung it around, stuck it between his ankles-- (he processed this all after it happened, in the moment he was only aware that he was falling)-- shit shit going _down,_ falling, and Reese had a hand in the back of his shirt, collared, and suddenly he was on one knee by the couch, bent over, and Reese had an iron hand around his throat and his smile was two inches away.

_Shit! Fuck! Fight! He's got a broken leg, just pull the fuck AWAY and you can run away!_ screamed one half of his brain. The other half, the part that had told him that survival meant getting on his knees for a mob boss, said,  _be still, be quiet, make no motions, don't move, don't move, don't move._

He breathed, shallow and raspy, while Reese's fingers tightened inexorably on his throat. 

"I'll tell you what I watch,  _Lionel,_ " Reese whispered, his voice soft and gentle and right in Lionel's ear. "Since you really want to know.

"I watch the  _news._ I watch the news, and I pay attention to the news. And my favorite bit of the news," Reese's fingers were closing on his trachea, he could hear his own breath whistling a little, "is watching  _scum_ \--" squeeze, "and  _filth--"_ squeeze, "get-- what they-- deserve.

"Your arrest made the news, Lionel," Reese continued, and a spike of ice lanced down to his spine, to vie with his current lack of oxygen for his attention. "Not a lot of news, no. A nobody cop, strung up on corruption charges... happens every day in this city. But enough that I remember your name. I know who you are. I know what you've done. And that, Lionel, is my _beef_ with you."  
  
The fingers released him, with a rough push that sent him the rest of the way off-balance. Fusco hit the carpet and stayed there, wheezing, wide-eyed. Reese looked satisfied contempt down at him. He struggled to sit up, his eyes on Reese and his hands and the crutch, in case Reese decided to take him down again. 

His heart was pounding. His mind was going almost as fast, churning over and over. 

Done. That was it, wasn't it? Didn't matter. None it mattered. Reese hated his guts, but what was worse, the fucker had a good  _reason_ for it. He rubbed at his throat and stared unseeing at the couch. Slam-fucking- _dunk;_ game over. (Go home, Lionel.)

"Okay," he croaked. "Okay. Have you-- have you told Finch?"

Reese blinked, like he hadn't expected that, then his eyes narrowed at him. Truth be told, Fusco hadn't expected it out of his mouth either. The fuck did it matter, whether or not  _Finch_ knew.

Reese put a voice to his thoughts. "What do you care? I just have to say  _no,_ and you don't get hired. And, in case you haven't figured it out? I'm saying  _no."_

He nodded, shaky. Yeah. Yeah, fair enough. He just... it was only... 

It didn't matter, he got that. Whether Mr. Finch thought he was a nice guy or the scum of the earth: he wasn't likely to see either of them ever again. 

But fuck it, the guy had been-- he had to stop, hunt the word for it in his head-- the guy had been  _kind_ to him. Rich, sheltered, naïve fucking queer geek that he was, the guy had been  _kind_ to him,  _nice_ to him, and that was a precious fucking commodity after two years in the joint. He didn't want Finch to know the truth about him, didn't want the guy to look at him with the same contempt in Reese's eyes, no matter that he'd earned it: he wanted there to be one motherfucker out there whose first reaction at hearing the name 'Lionel Fusco' would be 'oh yes, he works hard,' and not  _scum-- filth-- lowlife_ . 

Pathetic of him, he supposed. Fusco grabbed the edge of the couch and got to his feet.

"Don't tell him," he said, and the note of pleading in his own voice was pretty fucking emasculating too, he thought. Fuck it, whatever, he wasn't proud. No matter if the last week had given him some delusions in that regard. He wasn't proud, because he had nothing to be proud about. 

He saw Reese's mouth opening to point out, yet again, that it didn't matter, that Reese still had the power here, so he spoke first, his voice hoarse from the strangling. 

"I'm not getting the job, I know. It's not that. Just. Just don't tell him. It won't make a difference, right? I'm gone regardless," he said, staring into Reese's stone face. 

Reese's eyes bored into him like dental drills. After a second or two, Reese snorted in disbelief. "You care what he thinks of you." 

Fusco looked away. He pushed off from the couch, scooped up the trash bag from where he'd dropped it, and staggered back to the kitchen. 

He'd gotten the five goddamn words, he thought. And then some. 

***

Fusco took the trash out. It was a long walk, hauling the cans down the endless driveway with the sun bearing down. His throat hurt. He wondered if it was bruising. That'd be hard to explain to Finch. That'd be hard to explain to anyone, he guessed. 

He punched the button to open the wrought iron gate and set the trash cans out. The nearest driveway of another house was an easy two-hundred feet away, with brick-and-ivy walls and big trees casting shade over the street. If you had kids, they could ride their bikes on a street like this, but there weren't any children riding bikes, or playing stickball or anything else. Probably they all had, hell, paid riding lessons instead. Something.

He stared at the bulk of the house, red-brick-and-white-wood, sitting there at the top of the long driveway. Might be the last day he saw it. The lawn looked nice. Better than his first day. 

So what. 

Back in the house, he stopped in the bathroom, splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. Sure as hell, his neck was bruising: faint, but there, smudges on either side of his throat. Thanks a lot, Reese.

He gave the kitchen a once-over, wiped the counters down again for good measure. 

And then there was nothing left to do but go knock on Mr. Finch's door again. 

"Come on in."

The door creaked open under his touch. Mr. Finch was at his desk, typing. 

"Hey, Mr.-- Harold-- I've got the trash done. Anything else you want today, or should I head on out?"

Mr. Finch swiveled the chair around, plucked at his trousers over his knees. "Mmn, no, I think that's it, really. Let me get your check."

"Yeah. Sure." 

There was a clock ticking somewhere in Mr. Finch's office, he realized; he could hear it going as Finch got out his checkbook, signed a check with a gold pen, skritch-skritch. 

Mr. Finch got up and limped over to hand it to him. Fusco dutifully took the slip of paper, folded it, put it away in his wallet. 

If Reese had told Finch, in the last ten minutes, there was no sign of it on Finch's face. If Finch already knew... if he'd known the whole time... there was no sign of it either. Finch just gave him the small, fixed smile. 

"Thank you again for lunch, it was delightful," said Finch, all formal, and fuck,  _fuck,_ this was excruciating, having to listen to the guy be so goddamn polite after Reese's growled and ugly truths. 

"Yeah. Sure. Look--"

(Finch's face was attentive and still, eyes sharp on him. Reese, the guy did his best to ignore you. Finch watched you like your every word might be leading up to a threat.)

"--look," Fusco said again, thickly. "I-- so should I bother coming out tomorrow? I mean, if this isn't going to... I'm just saying, it's a bit of a drive, you know?"

Mr. Finch lifted his chin a bit, a challenge, but it wasn't aimed at him, Lionel figured. He bet there was gonna be another big-ass fight, after he left. 

"I believe we did say two weeks," Finch Said, with a capital S, and what the fuck was he supposed to answer to that?  _'Yeah, but as soon as I leave your boyfriend's gonna tell you what a piece of shit I am, and you're gonna change your mind'_ ?

He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Okay. Just... you know, call me, if something comes up, if you don't need me to come back."

"If your services aren't needed, I'll be sure to call and let you know," Finch said firmly, and he had to take that.

He retreated. Didn't seem much else he could do. Bear followed him to the door, nails clicking on the hardwood floor; he gave the dog a rough pat on the head before he stepped back out into the heat, and headed for his car.


	12. Not really a chapter! Sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References and notes that may be of interest

So, this is not technically a chapter, but it's a catch-all Author's Notes I wanted to throw in. I'll likely update it as the fic proceeds. Basically, I like to do a lot of detail research in my fic (probably far too much of it), and I always feel vaguely bad that I can't show everyone all the images I tend to accrue for something like Weeds. And then I realized that I can! So this 'chapter' will be various reference images to help people visualize things, or copies of the recipes Fusco uses, or... whatever else I happen to come up with that I think might be fun to share. You certainly don't need to look at these notes to enjoy the fic; this is just self-indulgent link spam on my part.  
  
I've been supa-busy with a work deadline the last two weeks and haven't been able to write anything on the next chapter, but I hope to get back to it now. In the meantime, hopefully these links will entertain!

 **[Floor plan of the first floor](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/dien/1096107/771537/771537_original.jpg)**

**  
Recipes**

  * [Fusco's Strawberry Salad](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/strawberry-romaine-salad-i/)


  * [The Three-Meat Ragu](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/mario-batali/ragu-bolognese-recipe2.html)



  
**Visual references  
**

  * [Finch's fancy dinner plates](http://na.wwrd.com/ae/us/vera-filigree/vera-wang-vera-filigree-gold-5-piece-place-setting/invt/091574210797)


  * [That copper pan Fusco's a little in love with](http://www.surlatable.com/product/PRO-983684/Mauviel+Sur+La+Table+Anniversary+Fait+Tout)


  * [Bear's Wicker Toy Basket](http://www.potterybarn.com/products/doggie-pet-toy-chest/)


  * [General visual inspiration](http://www.sothebysrealty.com/eng/sales/detail/180-l-622-cy9j2g/colonial-oyster-bay-cove-ny-11771) for the house (though not an exact match)


  * The [goose print](http://www.nyhistorystore.com/shop/audubon-prints/canada-goose-oppenheimer-print?gclid=CK-pk7mIxr0CFcRefgodMigAng) that Fusco flipped off


  * A [gold pheasant](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/roadshow/archive/200405A23.html) that Fusco has had to dust


  * More bird-themed [dust collectors](http://www.rubylane.com/item/287526-1616/Murano-Glass-Venetian-Large-Blue)


  * Reese's [Maserati](http://cdn.pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/maserati-alfieri-left.jpg) looks kinda like this 



**Random**

  * The [Jolly Tinker](https://plus.google.com/103343977548158234731/about?gl=us&hl=en) is a real bar



 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Fusco drove back to the city, and cashed his check, and then he drove around. He drove around because he didn't want to be at the YMCA right now: full of kids half his age, and full of _people,_ in general; proximity, noise, interaction.

He wanted to go home. Someplace his, where he could shut the door and lock it and reasonably expect that nobody else would come into _his space._ His old apartment had maybe been something of a craphole, but goddammit, it had been _his_ craphole. He wondered idly who lived there now, if they'd ever gotten management to fix that leak in the bathtub, if they had their furniture arranged differently than he'd had it.

He missed his La-Z-Boy. That was in storage with most of the rest of his life. He'd bought the chair new, one of his few such pieces of furniture-- spent near a thousand damn bucks on a freakin' _chair,_ but man, the feeling when he'd come from a 12-hour day at the precinct, cracked a beer open, sunk down into the yielding upholstery and popped his legs up... it was a good chair. There was no such chair waiting for him at the Y: he'd be sitting on the common room couch or something and that couch wasn't a piece-of-shit ex _act_ ly, but it was still a communal-use couch that had hosted a lot of asses besides his own and it was _worn in_ , alright.

On the other end of the spectrum, you had Mr. Finch's fucking salon furniture. If anyone had _ever_ sat on that stuff, it was news to him. Chintz. Was that the word? Fuck if he knew. Floral patterns, and everything white and pristine and needing to be dusted, just shelves and shelves full of expensive shit that needed to be dusted, and that wasn't a _home_ anymore than the Y was. That was a room for entertaining, maybe, he guessed-- a room for a cocktail party, and ladies in nice dresses, and little plates with shrimp on them, and other bullshit that didn't happen in the real world-- but Mr. Finch and his pet dickhead didn't seem like they were hosting motherfucking garden parties anytime soon.

That place was way too big for two people. Maybe if you had kids, but not for two of you alone.

Thinking of Reese made his hands grip on the wheel, his heart bang in his chest. He realized he was speeding, and he took his foot off the gas with a slow exhale. He forced himself to try and relax back into the car seat.

Motherfucker. Mo. Ther. Fuck. Er. He could still feel the guy's hand around his throat. That moment was real immediate in his head: on one knee, within spitting distance of dying maybe, and _fuck,_ he was gonna be worked up all night.

The Y had a little gym area. Maybe if he lifted weights or pounded the bag for an hour he could stop thinking about it, replaying it. That was probably better than just cruising the city wasting gas, waiting for Finch to call and say, _On second thought, Mr. Fusco-- Lionel-- we won't be needing you tomorrow..._

He realized, too late, that he was in the Bronx, his old stomping grounds, and furthermore, that he was on a familiar street. Fusco's hands curled around the steering wheel as the violently-yellow building ahead met his eye. Fuck.

The Jolly Tinker: a fucking dive of a bar if there ever was one. Total shithole. Full of annoying goddamn college punkass kids drinking underage, scrawling their names on the wall with their keys, playing beer pong in the back room, making out on filthy couches. The bathrooms were fucking toxic. Your feet stuck to the nasty fucking floor that had probably last been mopped sometime back in the Reagan administration.

What a great goddamn bar.

Cop favorite: he and Stills and half the rest of the crew had come here after shifts, cuz Paddy knew them (and Jesus Christ, an Irish bar with an actual Irish bartender, what were the odds), threw 'em a few drinks on the house, and in turn they were always ready to throw any troublemaker out the door and shove a badge in his face for good measure. Fusco's face crinkled involuntarily, a smile, god, how many fuckin' times had they shouldered some pimply-faced college kid off the pool table? Racked up the balls, gone through a pitcher or three?

The smile went away. He hunched his shoulders, lowered his head to the steering wheel, scanned the street. He didn't see Stills' car, but that didn't mean anything. Fuck his subconscious, anyway, bringing him here. He could all-but-fucking-taste the beer.

He circled the block three times before he managed to turn the other direction, point the car back to the YMCA.

***

Back at the Y he hit the weight room. He hit it hard, came in ready to sweat and not-think, the way he'd used the gym in prison. Except this time he had his phone sitting there, on the floor, on the bench, waiting for it to ring.

Three sets, ten reps, with the dumbbell. Three sets, ten reps, on reverse curl. He watched the phone.

Three sets, ten reps, on the pec deck. Three sets, ten reps, with the dumbbell on an incline. The phone didn't ring.

Squats. Pulldowns. There was a big guy, black guy, arms like fucking tree branches, on the bench pressing a hundred pounds on each side of the bar. He watched him. "Need a spotter?"

"Sure."

So he spotted him. Then switched places and he took his spot on the bench, warmed up with half the weight the other guy had put on. They didn't talk. They didn't have to talk. It was guy shit, at its purest: just lifting and grunting and getting shit done, doing your reps, doing your own time. Minding your own business.

Waiting for the fucking phone to ring.

He was up to two hundred himself by the time he stopped, and he was sweating, wet with it, arms trembling by the time the bar clanged down into the rest. The big guy looked at him with a bit of respect that hadn't been there at first. He lifted his chin a little in answer, acknowledgment, _yeah, you've got a foot on me but I'm not a pussy,_ rolled off the bench to hit up the drinking fountain.

Fucking _Reese,_ man. Fuck him.

There was a bag in the corner. He took up a spot before it and punched it, the way he had punched Stills: fists rising from his hips, corkscrewing sideways to hit the bag solid and low, shoulders working in time with his feet, just make his body a piston, an engine, rise-and-fall, rise-and-fall, pivot off each punch into the next, right-left-right-left-right-left, punching Stills, punching him in the ribs this time and not the gut, punching hatched-faced Simmons, and that fat fuck of a captain, and all the other HR bosses he'd never met-- for _betraying_ him, for making him bullshit promises, for letting him hang for their sorry asses-- punching Carl for that _something to remember me by?--_ punching that asshole faggot Reese for every goddamned word he'd said, smiling, while his hand had been around Lionel's throat-- punching until his wrists hurt and his knuckles stung from the canvas and he couldn't punch any more.

And still his phone didn't ring.

***

He woke to the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the hall. Fusco rubbed bleary at his face, feeling last night's workout in every inch of his shoulders. He lay there a moment, staring at the bottom of the bunk above his, and thought about going back to sleep.

\--fuck! What time was it? He fumbled for his phone, dropped it, cursed, rolled out of bed and snatched it off the bare tile. Fuck, _fuck--_

No call. No missed call. He stared down at that, dragged a hand over his raspy jaw, and then his eyes tracked to the time.

_Fuck!_

***

He was really lucky, he thought, that in the morning, the traffic all went the other way, into the city. And he was also really lucky no New York State Trooper was looking to hit their quota that morning, because his speeding would have given them a fantastic reason.

He made it to the house ten minutes after nine, which was pretty goddamn impressive in his opinion. Admittedly, at the cost of breakfast and a shave. Least he'd showered the night before. (Fuckfuckfuckfuck.)

The gate swung open and he drove up, slow, slow after all his haste, staring at the house like it might bite him.

He should have checked his email, he thought. There hadn't been time, but he should have made the time, maybe there was a polite, long email there from Mr. Finch-- or a polite, short one-- about how _we thank you very much for your service so far, Lionel, but on reflection..._

Fusco parked the car around the back again. He swallowed, looked at himself in the dashboard mirror, and levered himself out of the car and towards the house. He tucked in his shirt as he walked.

Mr. Finch met him at the back door, coming out, nearly running into him. The geek was back in a three-piece like the first day, fancied up, with a briefcase in hand that must have been heavy as hell, the way he was listing with it.

"Oh! Lionel. There you are. Good morning," Mr. Finch said, as he struggled with the briefcase. "I wasn't altogether sure you were coming."

"Yeah, sorry, ran into traffic on the way," he said, and hurried to take the case. "Here, let me--"

Mr. Finch blinked at him from a foot away, his pale, watery eyes big and tired-looking behind his black-rimmed glasses. Mr. Finch took several seconds to let go of the briefcase.

"...thank you, that's very kind, just take it into the garage, could you? John--" and Finch twisted to look back into the house, "Lionel's here, why don't you let him carry the rest?"

He didn't wait to hear whatever 'John's' answer to that was. He set out for the garage, and fuck, the briefcase _was_ heavy. Not something he couldn't handle, but he didn't wonder that frail-looking Finch had been struggling with it.

"What's in here, rocks?" he said through a strained grin, and Mr. Finch walked behind him, he could hear that shuff-step-shuff-step of his on the brick path.

"Slaughtered trees," said Mr. Finch. What? Oh, right, he meant--

"Paper. Reams and reams of paper comprising multiple copies of a several-hundred page comprehensive financial report and analysis for company stockholders. Terribly dull to anyone not in the business, I'm afraid." Mr. Finch was silent a few steps (shuff-step, shuff-step) then added, "Terribly dull to many of us who _are_ in the business, if we're honest."

Fusco laughed, like he figured he was supposed to. They made it into the garage and Finch fished out a key-fob, beep-booped the Lincoln open. "Can you set it in the back seat? Thank you. And then if you wouldn't mind helping John before he stubbornly manages to break his _other_ leg..."

"On it," said Fusco, and jogged back towards the house.

Reese was in the hall, grunting, another briefcase in one arm and clearly trying to figure out a way to carry a fucking third and use his crutch at the same time. Fusco didn't ask: he walked up, hands at his sides, and took one away from the guy.

Reese wheeled on him, teeth bared, eyes narrowed.

"Take it up with _him,"_ Lionel said. "I'm just following orders. Don't be a dickhead. Give me the other one."

Reese stared at him, a muscle clenching in his jaw, then complied: he shoved the other case into Fusco's chest, the impact enough to rock him back two steps, but he curled an arm over it and trapped it to his thigh and didn't drop it.

"Just following orders," Reese parroted in his soft, evil-fucker voice. "Was that your excuse when you got arrested?"

"Morning to you too, sunshine," Fusco wheezed, and shifted his grip until he could haul both cases out to the car.

Finch was in the driver's seat, dicking around with his cellphone, when Fusco deposited the additional briefcases in the car.

"Hey, Mr. Finch?"

"Yes?"

"You gonna be able to get these out on your own when you get to your company?"

Mr. Finch glanced up from his phone, flashed him a distracted smile. "Yes, thank you. I'll have some strapping young interns carry them for me."

 _Perv,_ Fusco thought."Okay."

"I should be back around two or three. Could you dust, please? And do a bit on the grounds as needed, tidy up the flowerbeds for the weekend?"

"You got it. Walk Bear, all that?"

"Actually, Bear will be coming with me," Mr. Finch said, and whistled. The dog burst out the back door, loped across the lawn, and Finch reached over to open the passenger door. (Jesus, if he had a car like that, no way he'd let a dog ride in it, at least not _the front--)_

"You might see to it that John remembers to eat lunch, though."

Yeah. Sure. No sweat. He could wrestle a crocodile too, while he was at it. Fusco breathed out, and really registered the fact he was gonna be here, for hours, with Reese. Alone. Great. Absolutely great.

Mr. Finch gave him a thin, vague sort of smile, and shut the car door, and the sleek black Lincoln rolled away, out the garage, past his crappy Toyota, off, off to the city.

Lionel decided to do the outdoor stuff first.

***

Dusting, he thought, a few hours later, was maybe the worst part of this job.

It wasn't that it was _hard,_ really-- it wasn't, weeding was harder, edging the bushes was harder, and that was all out in the hot summer sun-- there shouldn't be anything _hard_ about standing in an air-conditioned house and lifting tchotchkes off the shelf and flapping a feather duster around, but dammit, it was a pain in the ass.

He felt clumsy, doing it. Thick-fingered, and sweaty, and he was just really, really conscious that every fucking thing on the shelves was probably expensive.

There was a lot of bird crap. He'd kiiiind of picked up that Mr. Finch might be a little bit fixated. He counted five bird statues, or figures, or whatever, in the salon. Some of them were metal. Some of them were heavy metal. He thought one might be gold. And here he was supposed to pick it up, in _his hands,_ and not smudge it or drop it or sweat bullets thinking about how much money he might be in it for if he broke the fucking thing--

Mr. Finch (and there was no way any of this shit was Reese's choice) had stuff from all over. Chinese fan, or was that Japanese? Did it matter? Did anything matter except how very thin the paper and wood seemed as he eased it out and dusted around it? And then there was the _glass_ stuff-- little bottles and vases and porcelain china, stuff he could probably shatter if he breathed on it wrong. And there was a brass telescope, and boxes with ten fuckin' types of wood making little inlaid patterns, and a hand-sized globe, and paperweights, and _why did anyone have all this shit?_ How _rich_ did you have to be, to waste money on this sort of shit?

He thought about his mother, as he dusted. It had been a long time since he'd thought a whole lot about his mother. Mr. Finch and his dinner plates the day before got him thinking on her. The dusting got him thinking on her.

She'd had this hutch, that was what she'd called it, this wooden cabinet, in one corner of the apartment, with glass panels to let you peek in, but no touching. And the stuff his mother had prized had been in that cabinet: the 'good china' (her wedding china); a silver tea set. His mother's fuckin' pride and joy. They'd eaten on those dishes maybe once a year, and it had been a production: watch yourself, watch your hands, don't hit the plate too hard with your fork, set everything down carefully, and his mother had stared like a nervous hawk and held herself wire-tense until everything was clean and dried and put away again. The rest of the year, the cabinet stayed shut. It had a little lock and his mother had the little key and somewhere in all that, Lionel had gotten the notion that those dishes were fucking _priceless._ That the reason she worried so much, that the reason they didn't eat off those dishes every day, was that they were just impossibly expensive, maybe the most valuable thing in their Bronx apartment.

After his mother had died, his father had sold the dishes, sold a lot of her stuff. Said something about there not being a daughter, and it wasn't like Lionel was gonna need things like that, and he'd bitten his tongue on whatever he might have said because ha, right, he'd just gotten through the Academy and what the _fuck_ did a cop, a guy's guy like him, want with fucking _teacups?_

Three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars, for all the things his mother had locked away for once-a-year occasions.

He picked up a candlestick-- bronze, he thought, but not like he was an expert at this stuff-- and wondered if it had a price tag equal to all his mother's treasures. He felt ashamed of her, ashamed for her, ashamed for things like linoleum and Formica in her 1960s kitchen, and ashamed that she'd thought her department-store china was hot shit, and he thought about whether _she'd_ be ashamed to see him playing servant in a house like this, and he thought about taking the candlestick and using it, like a club, like a billy-stick, to smash every fucking expensive, worthless thing on Finch's fucking shelves.

***

By noon he was starving. 'S what he got for skipping breakfast. He dug out the lasagna from the freezer and then he went to look for Reese (his heart kicking up a few beats in his ribcage, dun- _dun_ , dun- _dun_ ).

The door to the hearth room was open, like usual, but Fusco realized he hadn't heard the TV at all today, no ESPN.

Reese wasn't in the room. TV off, couch empty. Great. Great. Now he had to _look_ for the fucker.

Definitely not the salon or the dining room, not the bathrooms, not library, Finch's study was shut and silent, bedroom door was shut-- had Reese decided to go back to sleep? He doubted it, not Mr. Army, but he knocked, twice, and there wasn't an answer-- although he bet that Reese would ignore him as soon as look at him, so that wasn't really conclusive.

Fuck, he didn't need this.

"Hey, Reese!" he yelled at the door.

There was a clock ticking somewhere in the house. Other than that it was really quiet.

Fusco closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and tried the bedroom door's handle.

Locked. Well. Okay then. Fuck. Alright. Fine. So either Reese wasn't in there, or he was and he'd locked the door, and if so, well, Finch could just live with the fact that his pretty-boy didn't get lunch.

He leaned against the hall wall and ran a hand through his hair. The goose picture from the day before was still looking at him with that beady eye, staring him down.

"Goddammit, I clean the house, I'm not a babysitter," he hissed to the goose. "Especially not to _jackoffs who choke me."_

The goose said nothing, because it was a fucking painting or print or whatever, and paintings didn't talk.

Fuuuck. Fusco stomped outside, slammed the back door behind him pretty hard, and stared out at the big bright sunlit lawn and the brick path and the fountain and the basketball court. If he were a self-righteous violent fucking antisocial dickhead with a broken leg who liked cock, where would he go?

He found Reese, fifteen minutes later, in the garage. Reese was sitting in the Bentley, in the driver's seat-- the car door was open and the _ding-ding-ding_ was what drew Fusco's attention first, hearing it faint through the warm, still air-- but yeah, there was Reese, crutch propped against the side of the car, sitting there, staring out over the lawn and the driveway.

What was he _doing,_ with a broken leg? It was his right one, too.

Fusco walked up-- he'd learned his lesson, he stayed back, out of crutch-tripping range-- and Reese didn't look up, didn't look his way, just sat there like a rock in the driver's seat. The engine rumbled low, in idle.  
  
"Hey," said Fusco, and louder, when Reese didn't so much as look his way, "hey! The hell are you doing?"

Reese's head panned slow to him, but he was pretty sure Reese was looking through him rather than at him. The guy looked like shit, though. Sweat standing on his face, one hand tight on the wheel, his eyes unfocused... Served him right.

"You goin' somewhere?" Fusco called over the sound of the engine.

Reese answered by looking forward again and tapping the gas. The car was in park, so it didn't move, but the engine revved, echoed in the garage.

"Yeah, the _fuck_ you are," said Fusco, and he planted himself in front of the car, hands on the hood.

The second he'd done it, he wondered why: was he fucking suicidal, was that it? He was pretty sure that Reese didn't terribly mind the idea of killing him. He replayed the words of yesterday in his head, the hand on his throat, and yeah, he was _really_ sure Reese didn't mind the idea of killing him. All Reese had to do was put it in first gear and stomp the gas. Plead vehicular manslaughter later. Why the fuck had Fusco done that?

Cop instinct, he thought numbly, while he stared at Reese through the windshield and Reese stared back at him. Was that it? The way you didn't let a drunk drive, or anyone else who obviously had no business behind the wheel? But you usually didn't stand in front of the drunk's car, either, in case they did a shit-stupid drunk thing, the way Reese might now do a thing, the way Reese might say a mental _hell with it_ and stomp the gas.

The engine vibrated up through his palms. V8, he thought, distantly. Lot of horsepower in that thing.

At least he had Reese's attention, he thought. Those dead blue eyes were looking right at him now.

Reese gave the engine a little more gas. He flinched at the noise, but he stayed there in front of the car, with his heart racing in his chest and the engine's rumble traveling into his bones.

"You can't drive, asshole," he yelled. "What are you gonna do, work everything with your left foot?"

Reese shrugged, as if to say, _why not._ Both hands on the wheel now, his knuckles standing out.

Fusco took a deep breath, forced it out slow. "I got my cell phone right here," he shouted, with a jerk of his chin down towards his pocket. "You want me to call Harold? I will, I'll do it. Interrupt his big important meeting and everything. You want me to do that, or you want to get the hell out of the car?"

Reese... deflated. His hands went slack on the wheel, his eyes closed; he slumped back into the seat. Fusco breathed.

He made his way around the car, stood there staring down at Reese. The guy was breathing shallow, his eyelids fluttering. (Christ, he even had eyelashes like some pretty-boy twink, alright.)

"Come on," Fusco said, brusquely, after Reese said nothing and did nothing for several seconds. He thrust a hand at the guy to help him out of the car, not because he thought Reese would take it, but because he thought it would make him get out of the car, to prove that he didn't need Fusco's help.

It worked. Reese gave him his usual look of dull loathing, then twisted himself out, left leg first, dragging the right leg so he didn't bump or jar it, groping for the crutch. Fusco got out of his way.

Crazy asshole. Fusco shook his head. Crazy, melodramatic asshole, because fuck this shit, a broken leg would _heal._ Reese would have his life back on track, back on its rich-man, spoiled-pet, not-a-care-in-the-world track, a lot sooner than Lionel was likely to get _his_ life back.

He figured it was stupid to say, maybe as stupid as planting yourself in front of a car and daring the driver to run you over, but he was keyed up and breathing hard and so he said it anyway, as he followed Reese back to the house: "It's a broken leg, you know? Your goddamn life isn't over."

Reese stopped. Those broad shoulders twitched under the polo shirt, and Fusco tensed in turn, waited with his hands loose at his sides, determined not to go down so easy, this time-- he'd throw a punch of his own, goddammit, he wasn't going to bitch out twice--

But Reese didn't jerk around and swing for him. Reese just said, "Yes. It is," and then he started moving again, crutching forward, step by step back to the big, empty house.


	14. Chapter 14

The house AC hit him like an arctic blast when they got back inside, a system shock after the heat and fumes of the garage. He took deep breaths and plucked his sweaty shirt away from his skin.

Reese headed for the couch and Fusco cleared his throat. "Lunch is almost ready. You want me to bring it in there for you?"

"Not hungry."

"Don't care," Lionel answered. It earned him Reese stopping and turning enough to give him the murder-eye.

"Harold told me to make sure you ate." He knew even as he said it that that trick wasn't going to work forever: 'Harold' was a gun he could fire only so many times before Reese said _fuck it_ and the chamber came up empty. The more he invoked it, the quicker it would happen, too. But as long as it worked _now..._

Reese's shoulders slumped on cue, his chin dropping an inch. The guy hung in the doorway to the hearth room a moment, then switched directions, gimping over to the breakfast nook, where he dropped into a chair and gave Fusco a look that said _here I am, now what, motherfucker?_

Fine. That worked.

The lasagna had thawed out some while he'd been hunting for Mr. Sulks-a-lot. He popped two plates' worth full of pasta and dicked with the buttons on the high-end microwave until he figured it out. (Reese watched, but did not, of course, offer any tips on how to operate the microwave.)

Salad, bread--? No, not worth it for lunch, and not for Reese, either, because fuck him. He didn't get side dishes, and Lionel was too hungry to take the time to make them for himself.

He did fill two glasses with ice water, though. It had been hot, in the garage.  
  
Reese did not grab at him or hit him or choke him when he edged past him to give him his plate and his water. Fusco retreated to the kitchen, putting the two feet of granite counter back between them again. He ate standing up.

Neither of them said a word. It was quiet except for the hum of the AC, the scrape of forks on plates. Fusco opened his mouth twice, each time considering something like, _So, you wanna tell me what the hell that was all about, in the_ garage? --and then remembered he didn't give a shit. Guy was screwy in the head? Not his problem. He was responsible for the housework, not therapy, and definitely not therapy for dickheads who got off on choking him. Anyway, he had other shit to worry about. 

He took Reese's plate when it was empty, started running some hot water. Sure, there was a dishwasher, but it wasn't worth the hassle for a couple of plates.

"Didn't expect I'd be back here today," he said shortly.

From the corner of his eye he saw Reese get to his feet, pick up the crutch again. Reese moved to one of the bar stools on the far side of the counter.   
  
Fusco said, "So you didn't tell him, then."

Reese shrugged. This non-verbal shit, Fusco thought, was gonna get old real fast.

"You wanna tell me why?"

"No."

What a fuckhead. Fusco gritted his teeth and scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed. "So, what, you're gonna hold it over my head, is that the plan? Let me fucking twist over it? Every day, I gotta go through this bullshit over whether he knows or not? Because  _fuck you,_ if so. I'm not doing that. I'm not doing that."

"How would you stop me?" Reese asked, like this was all just amusingly theoretical, like it wasn't Lionel's  _job_ hanging in the balance here--

He thunked the plate in his hands down into his rinse water hard enough he got hit with some of the splash. Deep breath. Sidelong glance at Reese, who was watching him from the other side of the counter, faint smirk on his face.  _Jesus,_ he wanted to hit him. He could sucker-punch him right now and then run out of the room before Reese could get around the counter on his crutches, right? Probably.

"I'd tell him myself before I put up with that," he said.

"Maybe you should," said Reese.

"Maybe I will," he said, and savagely scrubbed at the forks they'd used.

***

Reese returned to his lair, and Fusco returned to the dusting. He had the sa- _lon_ done, but there was the kitchen, the hall, bathrooms, dining room, library, laundry room.... bedroom was locked, so that was off-limits (good), what about Finch's little office? It wasn't locked, and he wavered with himself before deciding he'd better dust it, and ask forgiveness after the fact if he hadn't been supposed to.

If Reese were a normal person, he could just ask Reese whether or not he should dust the study, but Reese was an asshole, so no dice.

The TV was on again, though. That was good. Gave him a bead on where Reese was in the house, the faint and distant noises of baseball commentators coming down the hall.

If Reese did decide to be a dick over what he knew, _could_ he bring himself to tell Finch? He rolled it over and over in his head as he wiped the frame of the stupid fuckin' goose print free of dust. Mr. Finch would... would... he just didn't see Mr. Finch being okay with a convicted felon working for him. Mr. Finch was just way too respectable for that. So yeah, he'd probably torpedo his chances of the job...

Still better than dangling on a string for Reese to bat at. Anything better than the tension of the not-knowing.

Mr. Finch's office was all brown, cozy wood and brown, cozy leather. He hadn't really been in any state of mind to notice details, the first time he'd been in here-- just focused on the interview-- but it was nice. Sure. Nice.

(Money, money, money.)

It was weird, because it wasn't money like he'd always seen it being thrown around. It wasn't money the way Stills had driven up to the curb at the precinct in his cherry red '68 Mustang Shelby GT, and it wasn't money the way that Captain Lynch talked around the precinct about taking his wife to Bermuda. That was stupid money, show-off money: it was guys who wanted to make sure you knew they had money. (And that was stupid, because it was dumb to show off the things you shouldn't be able to afford on a cop's salary, but then again, what the fuck did it matter when everyone else was on the take too?)

\--anyway. Mr. Finch's money was different. Mr. Finch's money was quiet, like it was saying 'oh, don't mind me, I'm just here for tea, with my wood-paneled walls and my faggy china plates and my little bird figures'-- which was like ignoring a fucking elephant, in a house like this.

It wasn't loud, but it was there, it was there all over, it had bothered him in the salon and it bothered him here. How many rooms did the house have? Couldn't really guess for sure with the second story, but the answer was: too many.

He dusted the ten-thousand bits of trim on the bay window, he dusted all the frames of all the photos and art hanging on the wall (some of them weren't even birds; shocking-- there were black-and-white shots of the City though, high-art crap), he dusted off the dark wood of a standing coat-rack (even down on the feet), he dusted off Finch's big-ass, old-school yacht of a desk and the bookshelves and the table that held a printer/scanner and the printer was dusty too so he dusted it and he dusted the old-fashioned globe, spun it with a finger and watched the world go around and around, a blur of all the places he had never been.

***

He was out in the yard when Mr. Finch returned; he could see the sleek black Lincoln making its way up the drive. Fusco yanked another burgeoning weed from the flower bed and threw a glance at his watch. Three-forty. Meeting must've run late.

The Lincoln crept along; Mr. Finch slowed it down to a near stop when he passed Lionel, the driver-side window humming down. Bear was still in the passenger seat, squirming around the way he remembered Lee squirming around after long drives.

Tired-- that was his first thought, seeing Mr. Finch's face; the guy looked wiped out, as if one business meeting had aged him ten years or something. 

"Hey," he said, and Mr. Finch gave him a little nod.   
  
"How was today?" Mr. Finch asked, and he could have said, _Well, fine, except your boyfriend is fucked up and could probably use a good long psych eval._  
  
"Good," he said, because Mr. Finch didn't look like he needed to hear about that shit in the garage. 

Mr. Finch gave him a ghost of a smile, absent and perfunctory. "John ate?"

Maybe Mr. Finch knew quite well that his boyfriend was screwy. "Yeah."

"Good. Good." The car crept another few inches. Mr. Finch was looking at him as if trying to read him for more than that but what the hell was there to read? Then Mr. Finch's brows knit together, all the tension-drawn lines getting deeper.

"--is that-- you have something there on your neck, Lionel--"

He stood blank and bemused a moment until he remembered: the bruising. Ah, shit.

"Oh? Oh-- must be some-- dirt or something," he said, and made a show of wiping at it with the palm of his hand, which was also dirty and would probably just smudge dirt over it. 

Finch's brows remained furrowed, and he looked about to say something more but Bear was whining and yelping and putting his paws up on the dash now, tail whipping side to side, and Finch looked forward again to see Reese coming out of the house, on his crutches.

"-- _yes,_ Bear, there's John,  _do_ calm down," Mr. Finch sighed like a tired parent, and he gave the car a little gas and the towncar rolled past Fusco back toward the house.

He wiped dirt off his hands and followed, because Mr. Finch might need the briefcases hauled in.

Bear was out of the car and licking enthusiastically at Reese's face by the time he made it over. Reese was stiffly half-crouched down, but he was smiling: first time he'd seen that on Reese's face, he'd thought, a real smile, not that dickhead evil teeth-baring grin he did. Yeah, well, okay, you had to be a real sociopath to not like it when your dog was happy to see you, he guessed. 

"--don't  _encourage_ him," Mr. Finch was saying wearily, as he got out of the car and limped around.

"He's just saying hello, Harold, that's all," Reese said, ruffling the dog's thick fur.

"He's slobbering on your  _face,_ John, it's a bad, and unhygienic, habit for him to get into-- he didn't  _used to do that--"_

They both threw quick flicks of sidelong glances at him as he came up to the garage area, and Reese straightened back up, muttered something in Dutch that made the dog drop down and sit there quivering with restrained dog-joy.

_Sorry to interrupt,_ he nearly said, but instead he cleared his throat and said, "You need me to lug in those briefcases?"

Mr. Finch looked like he didn't want to be dealing with Lionel right then, but slow recognition flashed on his face. "--oh. Yes, thank you, that would be helpful, Lionel. They're in the trunk--" he said with a wave of his hand and a beep-boop of the car-key fob, before he turned back to Reese.

"How did it go?" Fusco heard Reese ask, quiet, as he dug in the trunk for the cases. 

"I'm afraid we lost a client," said Mr. Finch, and Fusco winced a little; apparently the meeting hadn't gone so hot. 

The cases were empty now, it seemed: he found he could lift all of them without a struggle. One in each hand, the third caught to his chest-- okay, now how was he supposed to shut the damn trunk-- he managed it, in a minor feat of juggling, and came around the car to see--

\--them having a Moment, apparently, because Mr. Finch was staring at the ground and Reese was staring at Mr. Finch with his eyes full of weepy fucking emotion, Chrissake. 

Jesus. Okay, sure, it sucked to lose the Jones account, or whatever, but he doubted Finch's wallet was personally gonna feel it; the way they were acting you'd think someone's grandmother had fucking died or some shit. Fusco shook his head marginally, and edged around Reese and Finch to head for the house with the suitcases.

"Better luck next time?" he offered in a an attempt to be diplomatic and sympathetic about it, and Mr. Finch nodded.

"Yes. Better luck next time." 

Reese said nothing at all. 


	15. Chapter 15

Reese and Mr. Finch limped mutually behind him as Fusco got to the door, juggled the cases around again so he could get it open.

"Jocelyn sends her regards," said Mr. Finch, "and Sam too; she said she hopes you're recovering well."

Reese snorted something skeptical. " _Shaw_ said that."

"I took the liberty of interpreting her sentiment."

Old co-workers, maybe. Fusco nudged the door open with his knee and made it inside, through the laundry room, into the kitchen, where he stood there waiting for Finch, to hear where Finch wanted them.

Mr. Finch came into the kitchen with Reese filling the doorway behind him and stood there a moment, looking kind of blank at him, so Fusco held up one of the empty briefcases. "Where do you want 'em?"

Mr. Finch's face, all drawn and old-looking, said he didn't give a shit. But Mr. Finch was helplessly polite, so what Mr. Finch said was, "Oh. Just set them down in the hall. Thank you."

Okay, he could take a hint: leave them alone right now. Fair enough. Fusco moved down the hall and put them by the door to Finch's office.

Reese was putting on the teapot when he came back through the kitchen, and Mr. Finch was sitting in the breakfast nook with his glasses off and rubbing at his face in silence. He left them to it: a bad day at the office was a bad day at the office, you didn't need your gardener up in your business. And he still had the rest of the weeding to finish.

***

He came back inside an hour later. The kitchen was empty and the TV was off. Bear was curled on the kitchen floor and looked up at Lionel with a whine and a hopeful thump of his tail.

"Don't look at me, buddy."

The bedroom door at the end of the hall was shut. He debated going down there to knock; not to be a dick, but he did need his paycheck-- then he caught sight of it on the counter, a note held down with the ceramic salt shaker.

_Lionel,_

_Thank you for your work today. We will see you Monday. Enjoy your weekend._

_-Harold_

The check was beneath it, made out for the hours worked. He had to be happy with that, he guessed. Ball was in Reese's corner. He'd survived the first week.

He drove back to the city, did the routine of bank-then-YMCA. Paid his room bill for that night and through the weekend, and fuck, but that basically wiped out the check. Some quick math, and sure, he'd made eight hundred dollars that week, but half of it was going to keeping a roof over his head and the other half was getting blown on gas and food and clothes and quarters for the laundry machines...

He sat down in the common room feeling suddenly exhausted. It wasn't the work, it wasn't weeding or dusting, it was--  _life,_ managing it, building it back up from nothing, goddamn it. Bills. Making sure you had enough, budgeting for the necessities, counting it out to see if you had five bucks for a hamburger or whether that meant you couldn't gas up the car come Monday morning. Fuck it, he'd managed all this fine at one point, hadn't he? Yeah, he was pretty sure he had, he'd not felt overwhelmed by things like  _buying laundry detergent_ at some point in his life.

But he'd had two years without this stuff, two years where his daily concerns had boiled down to a different kind of survival. Long enough for life skills to get rusty. He flashed again to all the stories from the return customers, the ones who couldn't hack it outside and came back--

No. No way. Not him. Not gonna be him. Lee was one week away.

Shit, one  _week;_ how the fuck was he supposed to get a place in one week when he'd basically broken even on pay for the first? Lionel thunked his head back on the couch and scrubbed at his face with his hands. Fuck, he never had shaved, had he.

"Hey," said a deep voice, and he looked up through his fingers. Oh. Hey. It was Tree-Trunk-Arms guy, from the night before, standing there in workout clothes with a duffel bag.

"Hey," he answered, cleared his throat and sat up a little in the couch.

"You hitting the gym tonight?" the guy asked, and he hadn't exactly planned on it, he was sitting here freaking out over what to do with two days without a paycheck, but shit, yeah, that sounded good, do what he'd done last night and beat the hell out of the bag until he stopped thinking. Maybe tomorrow morning he'd have some bright idea for how to fix his life.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah. Just gotta ditch my work clothes."

"See you there, then," said the guy, and moved past him for the gym.

***

He came in ten minutes later. The guy was back on the bench. They nodded at each other, and the guy sat up, grabbed some more weights to put on the bar now that he had a spotter.

Like the night before, they didn't talk much, except for spotter talk-- "Come on, two more--" "You good? Ease it back--" and that was fine by Fusco.

The guy was up to three hundred by the time he stopped-- shit, way to make him feel crappy about yesterday's lift-- and straining with it, wrestling with the bar. Fusco guided it back down.   
  
"Catch your breath, buddy."

"Yeah," the guy wheezed, and wiped at his sweating face. "Used to do three-fifty. Threw my back out a few years ago."

"Yeah? You oughtta be lifting at all?"

"Fuck that, you're not my doctor."

Lionel took half the weight off the bar, _thunk, thunk, thunk_ with twenty-pound doughnuts, and they switched places. He settled, feeling the plank of the bench beneath his back, smelling someone else's sweat, putting his feet flat on the floor.

He'd clocked a lot of hours in the prison weight room. One of Carl's guys had spotted him sometimes, but most of the time he'd just lifted solo, because Carl's guys were okay, he guessed, it wasn't like they were gonna shiv him or nothing (and that went a long way), but it was hard to work out with a guy when you both knew the reason you were being tolerated was because you were willing to suck the boss's dick. It was prison, sure, so it wasn't like he was the only bitch on the block, but... it got fuckin' old, the smirking and the cat-calling and the shit coming your way even from the guys who supposedly were protecting you.

None of that mattered now, he reminded himself. None of that was here, it was behind him, and the guy in the room with him didn't know any of that shit.

Up. Down. Lift. Push. Bring it back down. Up again. And breathe.

It did the job. The hum of worry in the back of his head got quiet, all the little voices talking about money and rent and apartments and Lee: didn't have the energy for that when you got into the lifting. Didn't have energy for anything but lifting, bringing in air and pushing it out to fight the burn.

"Saw you on the bag last night," the guy said in between sets, while Fusco was lying there catching his breath. "You box?"

Lionel grunted. "Used to."

"Matches?"

"No, just screwing around. You?"

"MMA. Before I fucked up my back, anyway."

"Huh." He wrapped his hands around the bar again, went through another set of reps, and on the last one he struggled to get the bar back into the slot. His spotter grabbed it and eased it down. Fusco sat up and wiped his face with his towel.

"Shit, giving up already?"

"Fuck you," Lionel wheezed, and the other man grinned.

"Then get off the bench, you pussy."

They switched places. He followed the bar with his fingertips, just resting beneath the metal, while the other guy huffed and puffed and grunted through another set.

They hit up the drinking fountain after, Lionel soaking his handtowel and draping it, wet, on his red face and neck. The other guy stuck out his big-ass hand. "I'm Marcus."

He looked at the hand a second, like it was a language he couldn't read. _What's your angle? This, what is this, what do you want from me? I got nothing to help you get by, man, I'm having trouble staying above water myself._

It wasn't prison, he reminded himself. Wasn't Stills either. The guy didn't want anything from him but spotting on the weights. It was fine.

"Lionel," he said, and shook the guy's hand.

They worked out until just before eight, when Marcus looked at his watch and said that he had to go, had to get a shower and get to work. Lionel said okay and then he stayed in the weight room for another thirty minutes on his own, half-watching the baseball game playing on the muted TV (Yankees vs Indians), and half-working-out, light reps with the twenty-pound dumbbells. It didn't kick his ass the way the bench would have or even the bag, but it kept his body moving and his brain offline.

Mostly, anyway. He replayed the conversation with Marcus in his head, filing the things he knew, or thought he knew. Guy said he had to go to work: so he worked nights. Guy said he had a bad back. How had that injury happened? No wedding ring, didn't mean a lot these days. Decent clothes for working out, a Nike mesh shirt and gym shorts, not just thrift-store sweats and tee. Nice duffel bag for his gear. He only saw Marcus at the gym, so probably not staying here...

"HR doesn't give enough of a shit about you to send someone after you, dumbfuck," he whispered to himself as he switched arms.

And even if HR _did_ give a shit, someone to go all buddy-buddy wouldn't be their style. They'd just slam him into a wall and talk sense into him with a few friendly, solid shots to the ribs.

Fuck, he'd done it often enough for them, to guys who were dragging their feet, hadn't made up their mind whose side they were on.

On the TV, the Yankees fucked Cleveland in the ass, and Fusco thought about how much he'd rather be watching the slaughter of a game from in a bar, with a beer in front of him, an ice-cold bottle of Bud, and his brothers around him, back in the days when they'd actually been his goddamned brothers.

Stills was a Yankees fan, he remembered. Wore that damn hat of his all the damn time off-duty.

Fuck the Yankees.

***

He took a shower. The Y's gym-showers for the men had a long bank of open showers, and then three or four individual stalls with the curtain you could pull shut over it. He was good with the stall, with three walls around him for the first time in who knew how long, but he left the curtain half-open and kept his back to the wall.

Lasagne was hours and hours ago. Fusco checked the pockets of his clothes and found enough for a burrito from the taco truck that lurked downstreet from the Y. He ate it on the way to the library.

He did math while he walked, too. Say it worked out, with Mr. Finch. Say he got the job, for good. At his hourly rate ( _and Finch had promised a salary_ , whispered that stupid little voice of optimism), that came out to... what, six grand a month? A little more than that.

Six-K was decent money. Shit, in Brooklyn, six-K, no taxes, was bordering on _good_ money. You could get a nice place, with six thousand dollars to spend. Say he put a third of the cash towards the apartment: Fusco was pretty sure he could find a decent place with two grand. A two-bedroom: he wanted that, that was his one thing, because-- because Lee shouldn't have to _share,_ his son wasn't going to sleep on the damned couch. His old place had had a bedroom for Lee, and this one would too. That was the rule.

That, and it had to be somewhere half-assed decent. No fucking junkies on the sidewalk. Lee had to be able to walk to the corner and back without a problem.

There were places in Brooklyn, he was sure of it. There were definitely places in the Bronx. It was doable...

...if he got the job.

The words rattled around in his head like metal buttons in the dryer, tunk-chink-tunk-chink-- _if he got the job, if he got the job._

If Reese were not a shithead. If Finch were not likely to freak the hell out should his past come up. If he hadn't been fucking arrested in the first place. If, if, if.

The library was quiet, an hour yet to closing but a lot of people already gone home. College kids studying. Fusco dropped down before one of the computers and opened a browser window and stared at the library home page for a long time.

Craigslist. Apartments. And Lionel figured he'd better hit the jobs listing, too.


	16. Chapter 16

Fusco woke up, freaked out about the time, grabbed his phone, saw that he was okay because it was only just past seven in the morning, and then remembered it was Saturday.

He stared up at the bottom of the bunk above his head and slowly relaxed back into the thin mattress. Saturday. Weekend. Right.

What had he used to do, with his weekends? He'd had Lee visiting, a lot of the time. They'd gone to the park, played stick-hockey, gone for ice cream, sat at home watching Saturday morning cartoons. Where was his son right now? At the summer camp thing. So... what? What did that mean, what was Lee doing this second? Eating syrup-covered pancakes with a bunch of his friends? Swimming in a lake? Fusco had only a vague idea of what kids did at camp.

Probably the kid was still asleep, at seven in the morning.

Fusco rolled himself out of bed and rubbed at his face. Sleeping in was for people who didn't have shit to do.

He ate the freebie breakfast and he shaved and then he walked the blocks to the library, the walk that was getting to be familiar, the walk that took him past a bar. He didn't feel as tempted this morning. Things looked better, after a night's sleep-- a dumbass saying that people threw around when they didn't know what the fuck else to say, yeah, but true all the same.

It still felt weird, to walk. To walk freely, to know he could cross the street and go the other direction if he wanted, to know he could go in any of the businesses on the street, that he didn't have a bed check or a guard walking by. He wondered how long until this felt normal again, the chance to just do what the fuck he felt like. (If it ever would, again--)

His inbox had no answers from any of the jobs he'd sent out to the night before. Fusco stared at the screen, willing e-mails to appear, but nothing happened. Back to Craiglist.

Office manager-- no. Bartender-- he snorted. Bad idea. Sales... sales... sales... and linecook. He tilted his head at that one, thought about it. He liked cooking, yeah, but restaurant cooking? He'd never done it professionally. Ad said three years' experience. He e-mailed himself the link for later, just in case.

Medical technician. Real estate. Sous chef. More sales positions. Pediatric dentist... the list went on, shit he couldn't do or didn't want to do. Like sales. Sales sucked. And a lot of the 'sales' positions were really telemarketing, too, which, fuck that. He'd flip burgers before he got into cold calls.

FEMALE MODELS/ENTERTAINERS WANTED. Fusco smirked a dark smirk at the screen and scrolled on.

Two hours and a lot of screens later, and he'd sent out six e-mails. Fusco guessed that as far as converting that to a scoring average went, a coach would have benched his ass a long time ago.

Fuck this. He logged out of his email, pushed back from the computer.

Outside it was sunny-- warm and working its way towards hot. He picked a direction at random (but not back to the YMCA) and then he walked. He told himself it was part of his job-dash-apartment hunt. He might see a Help Wanted sign, or For Rent. Sure.

He knew it was mostly walking to walk. Because he could. Because nobody was going to say 'no'.

'Sides, if he was going to be staying in Brooklyn he had to learn the area better. Bronx-born-and-bred, he knew the Bronx like the back of his hand, but Janet's apartment was Brooklyn so when he'd left her apartment he'd looked for something not too far-- and Brooklyn out to Oyster Bay was a shorter drive than from the Bronx.

If there wasn't any reason to stay in the city proper, then fuck, he could even do Queens. Cut another ten minutes off his drive.

He supposed it should feel liberating, that he could start over anywhere in the city. 'A fresh start', that's what this could be, leaving all the crap behind you... sure, yeah, but in practice he just felt lost. The city was too big, and the only thing he had for an anchor now was Lee, Lee and his ex-wife; without those he might as well move to, hell, Los Angeles or some shit. (Okay, no, he'd never have so little self-respect as that.)

Keep it simple, he thought. Stay in Brooklyn. Stay close to Lee. Not _too_ close to his ex, but... a short drive.

He walked. He soaked up the noises of cars and people, horns, music, parks, people playing soccer and enjoying a Saturday in June. Dogs. Kids. Parties and barbecues.

Prospect Park opened up green before him and Fusco's feet took him into it. He thought of Mr. Finch's expanse of yard, and compared it to the park, and the park won by a long shot, because nobody saw Mr. Finch's pristine lawn, nobody ran on it, families didn't sit out on blankets and nobody threw a football or a baseball over that big, manicured, empty lawn. 

The dog ran on it, he guessed. But what a fuckin' waste: that open space, the fountains and the footpaths, sealed off behind a brick wall. All the work of weeding it and mowing it was pretty pointless if you thought about it. He'd take the park any day, even with the trash that people left on the picnic tables and the goddamn pigeons that fought over it.

But as long as the rich man wanted to pay him forty dollars an hour to keep a lawn looking nice for nobody at all, that was fine by him.

There was a Little League game happening in one section of the park, kids in their uniforms and families yelling and cheering them on. He threaded his way through people to the backstop and watched with his fingers laced into the chain-link. He'd tried and tried to get Lee into baseball, and Lee had played catch (to placate him, he was pretty sure), but Lee's heart was built in the shape of a puck and that's all there was to it. He didn't mind: hell, he liked hockey, hockey was fine, but damn, it would have been nice, he thought, if he'd ever gotten the kid into a baseball outfit. Little helmet and all. He was sure Lee'd have been good at it. And unlike his old man, Lee could  _run_ \-- even as a kid, Lionel had been short and stocky (and he'd been a hell of a catcher), but Lee? Lee could jet, man. His son could steal bases, if he'd tried, if he'd ever had the interest. 

Fusco watched the game until he thought about how it was kind of creepy to watch the children of strangers playing baseball when you didn't have a kid of your own on the field to merit it, and then he pushed off from the fence and kept moving.

There was a cart selling hot dogs. He supposed he probably shouldn't, that he should be banking every leftover cent into the apartment fund, but he got a hot dog. He put mustard on it, thick; onions, everything, and goddamn, but he was pretty sure it was the best thing he'd eaten since before prison, better than the expensive food Mr. Finch bought, better even than the lasagne he'd made. 

It was a  _hot dog,_ a real fucking New York hot dog, and for the space of time in which he sat down on a bench and ate it, Fusco felt pretty good about the world. 

***

Back at the library, he muscled his way through four more job inquiries and stared dully at a renter's application. First month's rent. Security deposit. Co-applicant (shyeah, right). Personal references: would Janet give him one, he wondered? If not, who  _else_ was he gonna ask?

Real goddamn depressing, to realize all your friends, all your bosses, all your ex-partners, were people you couldn't trust any more. 

He leaned back in the stiff library chair and scrubbed at his face with his hands. The librarian, this WASPy old witch who looked like she'd been churned out sometime in the Coolidge administration, was side-eyeing him a lot, he thought. Maybe that kid he'd threatened last week had bitched to her. Maybe she just thought he was looking at porn. Who knew. 

Fusco's gaze wandered the library, avoiding the screen. Books... he'd never been much of a reader. Some guys got into it in prison, he knew (Carl had always had a stack of books by his bunk); he hadn't been one of them. Still wasn't. But hell, maybe they had books on lawn care, or-- flower gardens, or some shit like that-- maybe he could do this fucking amazing job on the lawn and impress Mr. Finch so much that even  _if_ Reese told, he could... could... 

Yeah, no. There weren't daffodils pretty enough to negate a criminal record.

Past the nearest bookshelves was the rack with the newspapers, the news magazines. He had no fuckin' clue what was going on in the world, and what did it matter, anyway? Politics, who gave a shit-- not him, and certainly not after his years with HR, because you got the gist of things pretty quick: city council, even state, were all just being pulled by someone who knew their strings, and Lionel figured that held true all the way up, so what did it matter? War: yeah, whatever. If it wasn't happening on American soil he didn't give a fuck about that either. Maybe he'd change his mind on that one when Lee hit eighteen, he thought blackly. 

Local news, now. Stuff happening in the city. Did a cop good to at least look at it--

\--but he wasn't a cop now, not now, not ever again, no more. 

He wondered how far back they had the newspaper records. Did people still do microfiche, or was that something lost to the computer age? Did they have papers back two years, and had he been in them, his arrest, his trial? Reese said he'd seen it on the news, but he'd been talking TV. Maybe he'd been buried back on page 23 or some shit.

He didn't want to know. If his fuck-up was there in black-and-white for the world to read, he didn't want to see it. He wrenched his gaze back to the computer. 

Fusco gazed at the application a few more seconds. Probably not worth keeping, he should hit the X right now and forget about it, forget about all of it, until he had enough money to make this worth his time. Which would be in... what, a month? 

Too late for the first time with Lee. He supposed he should call Janet, ask her if he could see Lee at her place this time, explain he was working on the whole place-to-live thing. 

Yeah. That conversation was one he was just itching to have. 

Fusco hit 'print'. He could show her he was filling out applications, anyway. That was something, maybe. It was all a whole fuckload of  _something,_ of  _maybe,_ of baby steps that were still a lot of goddamn  _work,_ and...

He printed out a few more before giving it up for the day. He'd take these back to the Y, fill them out there, and... he didn't know. Watch TV maybe. Just sit in the common room and not think for a bit. (A beer, a beer, he wanted a beer--) 

He collected his documents from the printer. "That'll be sixty cents," the librarian said pointedly, and he gave her a tired, annoyed nod, yeah, yeah, he  _knew._ That was why he couldn't fucking put the money aside, because everything nickel-and-goddamn-dimed you when you didn't have a place of your own, everything from your meals to just printing out a few fucking pieces of paper.

He had to hunt in his pockets for the sixty cents, too, and that was bullshit, standing there digging while the librarian looked on with her mouth small and tight, like she was looking forward to busting his balls if he couldn't produce that last goddamn dime. 

Back outside, and the heat him like a fist. Fusco stood on the sidewalk, blinking in the sun, with his renter's applications in his fingers and his eyes turned in the direction of the bar. He stood like that a long time before he made himself start moving for the YMCA. 

He filled out applications, for jobs, for apartments, until he was tired of doing that and tired of sitting and tired of worrying. He hit the gym after, half-waiting for his spotter to show, but dinnertime came and went and then later and later in the evening and finally Lionel gave it up, put the last of the weights away and hauled his tired and sweating ass to the showers, where he rested his face against the cold tile and listened to the water in the pipes and told himself that tomorrow would be better, he'd get more done, tomorrow was another day.

It was Saturday night and his bunkmate was out, probably partying, most of the young guys were out, he could hear doors in the hall and feet in the hall and distant music from the common room. Fusco stared at the bunk over his head and willed sleep to come.

It wasn't in any hurry to get there. The room seemed too warm so he kicked off his blankets and then the room seemed too cool, and there were still the noises in the hall and there wasn't a position where he really felt comfortable, not his back and not his belly and not his side.

Stress, he told himself, just the worry and the stress. Yeah. He punched his pillow and rolled over for the eighth time. 

He was thinking about the library, that dried-up old bag with her disapproving, pursed mouth (probably Mr. Finch would look exactly like that when he found out), and looking for a fucking dime, being a dime short, a day late and a dollar short, all his life, he was thinking about Lee seeing his dad on the news two years ago, he was thinking of the printer at the library spitting out the forms that he had to fill in and dot and sign to get his life going again, all this goddamn ink but it didn't cover up blood, and he was thinking... he was thinking...

Fusco was half-asleep, his body hovering in that numb space right on the edge of oblivion, when his eyes opened again and he rolled flat onto his back. He stared up into the dimness of the room, his brows pulling together like two boxers closing on each other in the ring.

Mr. Finch's printer had been dusty. 


	17. Chapter 17

Mr. Finch's printer had been dusty.

Fusco had _dusted_ it, it had been covered with it, a smooth layer too. Nobody had touched those buttons or the paper tray in weeks, or there would have been smudges, trails.

But Mr. Finch had said his briefcase was full of reports--

Fusco sat up. There was this sort-of-smile tugging at his mouth, a smile he hadn't felt there in a long time, since before prison, a specific smile: it was the expression that had used to hit him when he'd caught a perp in a lie. When shit didn't add up, when the pieces would niggle and niggle at him until it finally clicked, and then there was that wolf-grin moment where you could be like,  _ha, motherfucker, gotcha._

It faded almost as quickly as it had come. Fusco exhaled and scrubbed at his face. What the hell? What the fuck did it  _matter,_ if Finch's goddamn printer had been dusty? So what?

Finch had never  _said_ he'd printed the stuff at home. If there were that many goddamn pages to weigh the briefcases down like bricks, then probably he hadn't: probably you went to Kinko's or some shit like that, not your home inkjet. That was the first problem.

The second problem was, again: so what. So what if Finch hadn't printed it at home, so what, because  _he wasn't a cop._ And Mr. Finch wasn't some druggie or gangbanger, Mr. Finch was his boss, and his boss could say whatever the fuck he felt like, truth or lie or rainbow-riding-unicorn-fag-fairy-tales, and it was still absolutely none of his  _damn_ business. 

Fusco dropped back down to the thin mattress. He huffed a breath at the bunk overhead.

\--he didn't even know, he realized, if it had really been reports in the cases. All he had for that was Finch's word. Which might, or might not, be worth anything at all--

\--fuck, okay, stop. Not his business. Not his damn business.

"Do your own time, dumbass," he snarled at himself, his survival mantra for the last two years, and he punched the pillow again and rolled over and closed his eyes.

***

Sunday morning. Fusco dragged himself out of his bunk (the kid with the dreads was snoring in the bunk above him, probably had God's own hangover) and shuffled down the hall for breakfast.

He checked his email. There were two answers on apartments, which was exactly the wrong set of emails he needed to be hearing back on when he didn't have any cash. The responsible thing was to get back to looking for job ads.

He went for another walk instead.

All the people he passed, the shop owners and people moving through their day: none of them knew his past, his record, none of that shit. He had the... anonymity, he guessed, that he'd thought he'd had before Reese had gotten in his face and said  _I know who you are, I know what you've done._ Except if Reese knew, he couldn't be sure, could he? Couldn't be sure of the memory of anyone else, who might have caught it on the news, so anyone, anyone could know, could remember his name, or his face, could suddenly decide--

\--no. No, come on, knock it off. Reese was a freak. Nobody else knew: nobody else gave a shit.

He walked until he was tired of walking and then he kept walking. The breakfast oatmeal sat like a lump in his gut, but it kept him from being hungry. The sun got higher and hotter.

Bells rang out, jerking him from his stare at the sidewalk before him. Fusco snapped his head left and right before he hit the church-- big-ass church, hard to miss unless you were, you know, wrapped up in your own head rolling over all the bad shit. He stood there like a fucking tourist, rooted on the sidewalk, looking at the church across the street.

He'd been raised Catholic. Shit, Irish on mom's side, Italian on his old man's-- how could he have been anything but? He'd been an altar boy, for Chri-- for Pete's sake. That was a long time ago, though.

And before prison, he'd still gone to Mass, yeah: twice a year, like all the other lapsed Catholics. Christmas and Easter. He'd taken Lee a few of those times, because... well,  _because:_ because that seemed important, to take your kid to church. Maybe there, Lee could get some of the stuff that Lionel probably couldn't teach him. Right from wrong, morals, all that shit. 

Janet wasn't Catholic. Some Protestant group or another. She'd tried to get him to go with her once or twice. He wondered if he ever had, maybe things would have gone different, maybe they'd have stayed together, and then he told himself it was a stupid fuckin' thing to wonder.

In prison, a lot of guys got in touch with God. Fusco hadn't, anymore than he'd gotten in touch with reading. He didn't figure God had a lot of time for someone like him, a run-of-the-mill dirty motherfucker who had just been dumb enough to trust his bosses when they said he'd be taken care of. Maybe God changed the lives of the really bad people, the murderers and stuff, but not guys like him.

Or maybe he was a really bad person too and just didn't want to admit it.

None of that mattered now. There was a church. There was a church, and it was Sunday morning, and he hadn't been in a really long time. Two years, that was two Christmases and two Easters, so probably he owed the big guy a few.

He slunk across the street. The doors were open, blasting AC out into the heat. The holy water was room temperature on his fingers.

Fusco slid into the back pew and into the Mass, kneeling with the rest of the congregation, mouthing along the words drilled into him from childhood on.  _I believe in God, the Father Almighty..._

He guessed he did. He didn't  _not_ believe in God, anyway. It was funny, he thought, how many of the guys in prison, or in HR, believed in God, or said they did: had crosses inked on their arms, or said the angels were watching out for them or whatever. You would think, if you did believe, that you'd live your life a little fuckin' differently, maybe. 

Then again, it hadn't made a difference to him.

He felt the worn fabric and firm wood of the kneel-bar beneath his knees, the smooth wood of the pew under his fingers. He thought about Carl. Carl had to be Catholic too, or raised it anyway, but he bet Carl didn't believe. Carl didn't believe in any power but his own.

Fusco let his head sink down until his forehead rested against the pew, between his hands. Two years. Two years, for extortion, and no mention of the other stuff, the worse stuff. Bodies in the car. The feel of someone's ribs breaking under his shoe because the guy wouldn't pay up what he owed. The weight of a pistol in his hand when he brought it down on the bridge of some fucker's nose. Money pocketed, drugs ferried, punches and messages delivered hard.

He had some time to work off, still. A lot of time, maybe. A lot of stuff he'd gotten away with-- on earth-- but God probably didn't give you time off for good behavior.

He thought about sending up a prayer that Reese would maybe not be an asshole, because at this point divine intervention seemed like the way to go, but fuck it, he didn't have any business talking to God.

He left the church. He stood on the sidewalk, blinking in the heat and the sun, and then he headed for the library. That was probably more productive.

***

Janet called him, around the time he was thinking about dinner and what he could afford for dinner. The ring of the phone set his heart going: it would be Finch, Finch calling to say _Your services aren't needed anymore, thank you--_

"Hello?"  
  
"Lionel?"  
  
He exhaled at recognizing her voice, and leaned back in the library chair, lifting his hand to cover his mouth and try for quiet. "Oh. Hey. Hey. How's it going?"

"Thought I'd ask you the same thing."  
  
"Uh, yeah, it's going..."

The old hag of a librarian was staring lasers at him across the library; he jerked to his feet. "Gimme a second. I'm at a library."

He saved his work, got out to the lobby where he could talk."Okay, I'm here now."  
  
"The hell are you doing in a library, Lionel..."

He pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Looking up apartments," he said, which was, like, thirty percent true.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"How's that going?"

"Eh. You know. It's going. Lot of money to put down at once."

"Yeah. ...so. You're still working, then."

"Yes," and that was one-hundred percent true. He still had the job. He was still working, up until the point when Reese decided he wasn't, so technically _,_ yeah, it was true.

"That's good," Janet said, and her voice was a little softer. Reluctantly so, maybe, but he'd take it. "You think you're going to have a place in a week?"

"I dunno."

"Mm."

"I want a nice place. I'm not settling for a dump, Janet. I want a nice place if Lee's visiting me. Nice places cost money."

"Yup. They do."

There was not-quite suspicion in her tone. Something pretty close to it. Wariness, unspoken skepticism. It took money, and surely he, Lionel Fusco, couldn't be getting that money legally, not doing the _yardwork_ he'd claimed,was that it? _Fuck_ it.   
  
"I'll let you know," he said, and he jammed the button to end the call before she could answer.

He leaned his head against the lobby wall and stared out the sliding glass doors at the sunlit street. This was life, from here on out. This was what he'd made for himself. If Janet doubted his word, if Reese thought he was living shit, if Mr. Finch fired him, it was because he'd earned it.

So suck it _up_ , asshole.

***

He went back to the Y, back to the gym to punch it out. He was getting to be real good friends with the bag they had there-- intimately familiar with the durable, knuckle-abrading canvas and that spot where the stitching was crooked. The bag was a safe place to put all the anger, and he put it there with solid, driving punches. Up from the hip. In for the torso shot, like he'd done to Stills. Punch _through_ the bag.

If Reese grabbed him again he wanted to be ready.

That was what he told himself, anyway. There was a nasty little voice at the back of his head (sounded like Stills, he thought) that said, _Yeah? You, cocksucker? What will you do? What will you do, but pussy out, roll over, beg like a bitch again? Yeah, that's what I thought._  
  
He grabbed the bag, both-handed, drove his knee up unto it with a savage grunt, and then stayed there, with his face slumped against the canvas, his body weight hanging from both hands.  
  
"Shit. Did that bag fuck your mother or something?"

He spun around, one arm already raised-- it was Marcus, who took a step back but looked more than ready to slap him down if he swung. Fusco willed his heartrate back down.

" _Christ_. Don't sneak up on me, man."

"I didn't."  
  
"Yeah. Okay. Yeah." He left the bag swinging, moved to the water fountain and put his face right into the flow. The cold water was a system shock.

When he straightened back up, Marcus was there a few feet away, giving him a long look. The big guy tossed him a towel.

"You alright?"

He caught it with a grunt and wiped at his face. "Yeah. 'm fine."   
  
"Mmhm."

Fusco tossed the wet towel across one of the weight racks. "It's just-- work shit. Can't punch the boss, you know?"

"Been there," said Marcus, and moved for the benchpress, where he started to slot weights onto the bar. "What do you do?"

He took his position up at the head of the bench: feet spread for stability, fingers ready to help guide the bar. Head back, deep breaths, calm the fuck down. "Yardwork."

Marcus grunted as he settled beneath the bar. "Yeah? You can make good money, doing that," he said, and Lionel couldn't help but laugh.


	18. Chapter 18

His favorite radio station had gone off the air sometime in the last two years, it seemed: KROK 99.3 ( _Rock with the Croc, bringing you the classics from the 60s, 70s, and beyond!_ ) had been replaced by a rap station, which Lionel Fusco discovered while driving to Oyster Bay on Monday morning.

Fusco wondered how some of the guys coped: two years wasn't too bad, two years was just enough for things like radio stations to have gotten switched around on you, but what about the guys who did ten to twenty? You came out and the world was upside down. You went inside, back when cell phones were this Jetsons fantasy thing; you came out and everyone's got a fuckin' computer in their hand. That'd be wild.

So two years, that wasn't bad at all.

He fiddled with the radio, hunting for a station to replace KROK. By the time he got to Covington Lane, he had The Who playing.

_I've got my clipboard, text books_   
_Lead me to the station_   
_Yeah, I'm off to the civil war..._   


***

Mr. Finch opened the door when he got there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the dog at his feet: no sign of the tired old man that he'd seen Friday. Then again, Mr. Finch had had the weekend to rest up. He was dressed in khakis and a baby-blue sweater, so probably no office trip for him today.

"Good morning, Lionel," he chirped, and Fusco stepped inside.

"Morning. Lawn work today, yeah?"

"That's right. I think the begonias are wilting a bit; could you look at them and tell me if you think they need more water?"

"Sure," he said. He wasn't sure which of the beds of flowers were begonias, what begonias looked like. But sure.

Mr. Finch beamed. "I'll be in the study if you need anything," he said, and he limped off over the hardwood floors, the dog sticking to him like a shadow.

The drone of the TV gave him Reese's location. Fusco slipped through the kitchen, past the open door with just a glance to confirm Reese was there, planted on the couch, and then outside into the still-cool morning air.

The day passed. He mowed the lawn, then he threw the ball for Bear to chase until the dog tired himself out. He picked up lunch in town (gourmet soup and sandwiches), he weeded, he looked to see if any of the flowers were wilting. He worked.

Every time he got close enough to look, Reese was camped in his usual spot. Sometimes Finch was visible through the bay window of his office, sometimes not.

Five o'clock came, and Fusco trudged inside. Outside was good in a lot of ways, he thought. He felt like he was really accomplishing stuff when he did the lawn; not so much with things like the dusting. And he didn't have to cross Reese's path, or navigate the correct response to Finch's buddy-buddyness. Outside was simple. But the water from the sink still felt good on his neck, his forehead, and the AC was some kinda heaven.

Mr. Finch wrote him his check at the island counter. "How was your weekend with your son?" he asked, and Fusco's mind froze up a second before he remembered the interview.

"Oh. He's actually at summer camp right now," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Next weekend, though." _If you haven't fired me by then because of your bitch boyfriend._

"Ah," said Finch with an indulgent smile, and handed over the check. "How old is he?"

He had to pause, which hurt to realize: fuck, he'd missed one birthday for sure, had it been two? Yeah, two--

"Twelve. He's twelve."

"Twelve? Teenage omniscience is just around the bend," Finch said lightly. "Make the most of your remaining time before he realizes he understands the world better than you."

"Yeah. Planning on it," Fusco answered, and his voice sounded thick to his own ears. He was going to make the most of it, regardless. Make up for what he could, what he'd missed. If he could. If you ever could make up for being a shitty father, for not seeing your son for two birthdays because you were in fucking _prison._

He folded the check carefully into his wallet. He drove back to New York thinking he had to get serious on the housing thing.

***

"You know, John, I must say, for 'weaseling scum of the earth' he's been remarkably forthright about his personal life and connections. Have you known many hardened, duplicitous infiltrators to volunteer details about their children?"

"Earning your trust. Earning your sympathy. Textbook ops play-- get a real heart-wrenching cover going."

"Oh for _God's_ sake, John. Lionel Fusco isn't _CIA,_ and his son isn't an invention for a _cover--_ would you like to see the pictures? I _did_ look up his family. Aside from your ongoing paranoia regarding Mr. Fusco himself, it's a little bit insulting that you apparently don't believe in my ability to run a thorough background check anymore."

"…."

"…."

"He's _scum_ , Harold. You'll see. I'll show you."

"Why do I feel I should be worried?"

***

Tuesday, it was Reese who opened the door instead of Mr. Finch. They did their silent staredown thing for four or five seconds, then Reese magnanimously decided to let him in for the day.

The laundry was waiting in its baskets, along with a separate pile on hangers labeled _DRY CLEANER'S_ in Finch's neat hand. He threw the first basket into the machine, checked the settings, and got to work on the dusting.

Finch made an appearance around ten a.m., wandering past the salon's open doors. Fusco put the dust-cloth down and stuck his head into the kitchen. "You want me to throw some breakfast together?"

Finch blinked at him from in front of the fridge, standing there in socks and an untucked blue dress shirt. It was a _I-haven't-yet-had-coffee_ kind of blink. Or tea, in Finch's case.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"Not a trouble. I'm just dusting." Which he sort of hated, anyway. "But the dusting's not gonna take me all day, so..."

Mr. Finch hesitated before the open doors of the fridge. Fusco pushed it: "Sit down, I'll make you an omelette."

If the way to a guy's heart was through his stomach, Fusco figured he was bulldozing himself a pretty good path, at least where Finch was concerned. He cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and considered the ongoing problem of Reese. It was twenty feet to the door of the TV room, so Lionel stepped over and stuck his head in.

"Hey."  
  
Reese gave him a slow glance over, and one lifted brow.

"You eat any breakfast? You want an omelette?"  
  
Reese shook his head 'no' and looked back to the TV. Fine. Fine. Next time, maybe. Or maybe not. But he wasn't going to do _nothing_ and let Reese keep him hanging. He would push Reese, until he either got fired or the guy cut him some fucking slack, one of the two.

He moved back to the kitchen and grabbed an onion from the fridge. Forty an hour, eight hours, three-twenty for the day, sixteen-hundred for the week. If Reese didn't rat him out before then, he'd be sitting on maybe a thousand bucks after paying for his room and food and gas and all that crap. Not enough to get a place.... but enough to start seriously looking--

"You don't give up easily, do you?" Mr. Finch said quietly, and for one weird second Fusco thought he was talking about the apartment thing, that Mr. Finch could read his thoughts, and then he parsed it was about Reese. He glanced over his shoulder: Finch was sitting at the counter, looking at him thoughtfully.

Fusco shrugged and brought the knife down into the onion, slice, slice, slice. "I've been told I'm too dumb to know when to quit, yeah."

Mr. Finch smiled a small smile. "You don't strike me as dumb, Lionel."

He turned enough to give Finch a crooked grin. "You haven't known me that long," he pointed out with a wave of the knife. "Give it some time."

***

He got most of the laundry into machines, finished up the dusting, and took inventory of the kitchen cabinets as a pre-emptive strike on lunch. They weren't joking about eating out all the damn time-- they didn't have the _basics,_ the stuff you needed to keep on hand to make a meal from scratch. He needed to do another grocery run. Fusco went through the kitchen top to bottom and made a list, everything from rice to spices.

Finch was back in his study, and the door was closed. Fusco held a brief debate with himself about interrupting him, then decided it was probably fine, and that even if Finch was busy, he wasn't the kind of guy who took your head off about that, so...

"He's on the phone," said Reese's soft voice as he was raising his hand to knock, and seriously, how _did_ the creep move that quietly? Fusco jumped and spun. Reese was standing at the junction point of the hallway and the entryway. He was wearing all black today, the entryway's sunlight silhouetting him from behind and the usual murderous look on his face. Fusco thought he looked extra ominous, like an angel of asshole.

"Okay," he said, since he had to say something, and that seemed better than _fuck off, you scary gimp ninja._

"Don't bother him when his door's closed," said Reese.

"Right. I won't," said Fusco. "I'll just... come back when he's done."

"He'll be a while. It's an important call."

Fusco gave it up. He looked to the goose print for moral support, and ran a hand over his face, and said dully, "Fine. Look. I was just going to ask him if I could pick up some groceries when I took in the dry cleaning. Alright? You want me to slip the message under the door or something? Should I wait? You're in charge now, so you tell me."

Reese leaned on his crutch and gave him a long, thoughtful look, like wondering what bone to break first. He would have turned and walked away, except the hallway trapped him: at one end there was the door to their bedroom, and the end that opened up back into the rest of the house was occupied by Reese.  
  
"How much do you need?"

As it was not a thinly-veiled threat, or order, or insult, Lionel didn't parse the question at first.

"What?"

"How much money do you need for the groceries?"

Wait, was Reese actually being something approaching helpful? Fusco hurried through rough estimates in his head, then stuck on another twenty bucks to account for the marked-up cost of everything out here. "I... I guess eighty would cover it."

Reese pursed his lips, and shrugged, and started toward him, crutch-crutch. Fusco tensed up, but Reese was just moving past him, to the bedroom. A minute later, and Reese was back in the doorway, thumbing through a plain black wallet and fishing out twenties.

"Here. Eighty. Harold liked your lasagne," said Reese, and Fusco took the bills warily. They were crisp and new. He squinted up at Reese's face, and... maybe Reese didn't look quite as psychotic? Like on a scale of one to murder, he was down to, hell, just maiming or something?

"...okay," he said, and pulled out his own worn wallet to put the bills into it. "Okay. Uh, thanks."

"Sure, Lionel."

He edged backward, and turned only when he was out of crutch range, just in case Reese changed his mind.

***

His phone rang as he browsed the aisles in the upscale grocery store. Like the last time, he dug it out dreading it would be Finch-- but he was pretty sure that Finch would let him come back to the house, would drop it on him there.  
  
Not Janet's number. City area code. He breathed out and lifted it to his ear.

"Hello?"

 _"Hi, is this Lionel Fusco?"_ A woman's voice.

"Sure is, who's asking?"

_"You emailed me about an apartment, the walk-up on 42nd. Still interested?"_

Oh shit, yeah. He dragged the cart to a stop. "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Donna, right?"

_"That's me. Would you like to set up a time to see it?"_

"Sure-- I'm done with work about six, does six-thirty work?"

_"That's fine. What day?"_

He set up the meeting with half an ear, trying to remember the details about the apartment and whether it was one of those that had talked about background checks or anything else. When the call ended, he stood there a moment, staring blankly at the expensive, organic, free-trade olive oil or whatever the fuck he was looking at, fingers still tight on the phone.

"Don't get too excited, sport," he muttered. " 's just looking at a place. You can't even afford it yet."

But it was hard not to feel like maybe things were starting to look up. Fusco found himself humming as he got back to the shopping. What the hell-- he grabbed that bottle of stupidly fancy olive oil, and added it to the cart.

At checkout, his cart came to seventy-seven dollars. Fusco congratulated himself on his powers of estimation and handed Reese's money to the clerk, a pimply-faced kid who was probably just out of high school. Fusco looked over his purchases with some satisfaction: even at the bullshit prices they charged out here, he'd done good-- a lot of your basic spices, and some good filler starches, potatoes and rice and pasta, some vegetables, and a few good cuts of meat that you could really stretch out in soups and things. He was thinking chicken, when he got back-- that was quick, he could whip that up in time for a not-too-late lunch, though damn, it was a shame they didn't have a grill, or he could barbecue up some killer--

"Out of a hundred, sir?"  
  
He blinked at the kid. "Sorry?"

"You gave me a hundred, sir."  
  
Sure enough, there were five twenties fanned in the clerk's hand, and Fusco stared at them a moment. Had he grabbed some of his own cash-- no, he hadn't _had_ any goddamn cash in his wallet. Reese must have screwed up and given him extra.   
  
"Oh. Thanks. Just eighty," he said, and snagged one of the bills back. The new ones stuck together, it was easy to miss, so Reese probably hadn't even noticed.

...Reese probably hadn't even noticed.

He glanced down at the crisp, clean bill in his hand. Twenty bucks was twenty bucks. All the running around he was doing for them, cooking so they didn't need to buy lunch, Christ, putting up with Reese _alone--_ fucking hazard pay, that's what it amounted to, he could still remember that hand around his neck. So he just gave Reese back the change from his eighty, and then he got himself a real fucking dinner tonight, not the cheapest burrito from the roach coach-- no, no, he put it into the _apartment fund,_ it went to that, there, be smart with your money.

"Have a nice day, sir," said Clerk Acne, and Fusco found a smile for the kid.

"You know what? I think I will. Thanks."


	19. Chapter 19

He was just pulling into the long driveway when his cellphone rang. Fusco dug it out, his brows knitting together because it wouldn't be Finch, not _now_...

It was Janet. His mind flashed, without restraint or deliberation, to the worst-case scenario: something had happened to Lee. At the goddamned camp. He'd fallen off a horse, or drowned in the lake, or--  
  
Lionel jerked the car to a stop behind the house and jammed the phone to his ear.

"Yeah?"  
  
"Hey."  
  
He breathed out. She didn't sound like she was about to tell him something world-destroying. --she sounded pissed off, actually, which, well, he knew _that_ tone pretty well from her, it was familiar as an old sock.   
  
"What's up?" he said, and Janet sighed in his ear, that frustrated, fed-the-fuck-up sigh that took him back to the last year of their marriage or so.

"I had some guy around here this morning looking for you, Lionel."

The small relaxation that he'd slipped into disappeared like a puff of cigarette ash. "...what guy? Who? Stills?"

"No, not Stills." Janet had met Stills. She hadn't liked him. Neither did Fusco, anymore, so hey, that was something they had in common. "I don't know, Lionel, some _guy,_ I haven't seen him before. And I don't want to see him again."  
  
He swallowed thickly, his other hand twisting on the cracked and discolored rubber of the steering wheel. "Did he-- threaten you?"

She huffed. He could see her in his mind's eye, dragging her hair off the back of her neck like she did when she was cheesed off, the skin all tight around her eyes and mouth. "No. No, he didn't threaten me, he just said he was looking for you. I told him you were staying at the YMCA."

She said it crisp: no apology in her words, for having given him up like that. He couldn't blame her for that. She didn't want the guy near her home; Fusco didn't want the guy near her home either. Because that was where Lee lived. He didn't want HR-- and he couldn't imagine anyone else it could be-- anywhere near her and Lee.

"Okay," he said, his voice sounding thick to his own ears, thick and stupid.

"You tell your _friends_ not to come to my place, Lionel. You make it clear to them that you don't live here."  
  
"Okay," he said again-- and Janet hung up, before he could ask her about Lee, tell her about his apartment hunting, anything. 

He sat there a good thirty seconds, then he lowered the cellphone down to his lap, then he sat there some more. He'd made himself clear to Stills, hadn't he? Yeah, he had, but that counted for fuck-all if upstairs wanted something done. Shit. Who the fuck else would be looking for him, other than HR? He couldn't think of a damn person.

Should he go back to the Y, after work? Should he go somewhere else? He had nowhere else, short of getting a motel or something. And no, he had to go back to the Y, deal with whoever it was, or they'd just go back to Janet's place looking for him again, shit,  _shit._

He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

ESPN was on again when he made it through the back door with the groceries. Reese's voice hit him as he was unloading the bags onto the counter: "So what's for lunch?"

He craned around to see Reese standing there with his crutches, in the doorway to the TV room, looking the question at him. Progress? This was huge progress, right?

"...I was thinking chicken. Chicken marsala, maybe. That sound good?" he said cautiously.

Reese shrugged. "Fine," he said, and withdrew again. Fusco counted to himself. Five? Yeah, that had been five words from Reese, and none of them had carried an undercurrent of _I want to gut you like a fresh-caught fish._ Good. Great. Keep it up, and they'd be picking out fucking curtains...

He let out a slow breath as he turned back to the groceries. So, now he was getting somewhere with Reese? Fan-fucking-tastic, great, salud-- except he had bigger problems on his plate now. Funny, he thought grimly as he washed his hands off in the sink, how perspective could hit you like a kick to the nuts.

He filled the bottom of a shallow bowl with flour, salt, pepper, and Mama Fusco's secret ingredient, garlic powder. Janet had always sworn by cayenne, so he threw in a dash of that for good measure too.

Oil in the pan. Chicken breasts under plastic, and he took the meat hammer to them with short, strong blows. Should he call the YMCA? Ask the desk if anyone had been nosing around for him? Dammit, he should have asked Janet for more, kept her on the line longer-- gotten at least a _description,_ maybe he'd recognize whoever-it-was. Maybe he'd call her back after lunch. (No he wouldn't.)

He stared down at the meat as he hammered it thin, imagining Stills, or-- maybe Simmons, someone higher up the food chain a little. Simmons, now there was a fucking piece of work, that guy. He'd gotten bitched out good one night for being sloppy with a potential witness-- he'd figured he'd scared the guy good enough, but Simmons had disagreed.

Simmons had shot the guy. Just walked up to him, nodded like he was saying hello, and-- bam. Like that.

Fusco stared into the skillet, watching the shimmer on the oil as it got hot. Stills... he didn't think Stills would ever do anything to hurt Lee. In his gut, he did not believe that. Back when Lee had been born, Stills... Stills had talked about how their kids were gonna play together. Stills had been excited about it.

Stills never had wound up having kids. His wife had had two miscarriages, but no kids. Stills had always been good to Lee, all the same: mostly Lionel remembered when Lee was real small, and Stills would swing by to pick Lionel up to go somewhere, and Stills would mock-box with his son. Jimmy Stills wasn't a saint-- Fusco had no fucking illusions about that one-- but he did not believe Stills would ever hurt his son.

Simmons, though? Yeah. _Easy_. That guy would put a shotgun to Mother Mary's head if she were in HR's way.

He filled his cheeks up with air, and let it out slow. He couldn't do anything about it now. Focus on what was in front of him (chicken breasts, Marsala wine, and some mushrooms.)

He should probably break himself of the habit of cooking with wine, he thought blankly as he tossed the breaded chicken into the pan. It wasn't like he _needed_ any more goddamn temptation.

***

Lunch went. Mr. Finch seemed distracted; though he smiled on cue and made nice noises about the food, he ate quickly, and then he limped it back on down the hall. Maybe his ass was in a sling over the lost client, Fusco supposed; maybe Finch was having to pull some extra hours or turn in an extra report or do extra... whatever the hell it was he did for his firm. Extra math. Sure.

But his chicken was good, and Reese actually took a second helping, and lingered over his plate even when Fusco was clearing the table. He carried things into the kitchen, went back for the second wave of dishes, and Reese was still there, sopping up the last drops of sauce with the crust of his bread.   
  
"Looks like you found your appetite," he couldn't help but observe. Reese looked at him from the corner of his eye and Fusco tensed up despite himself, just in case Reese was gonna whack him in the junk with his crutch, but all that happened was that Reese nodded and popped the last bite of bread into his mouth.  
  
"Guess I'm just having a good day," said Reese, and Fusco wished he could say the same. Well, count your blessings, or whatthefuckever-- maybe this thing with HR would blow over, and the fact that he'd made progress with Reese would actually mean something. He could settle into this pattern for real, at least for a while: cook, clean, do the lawn, run their errands in Moneyville, USA...

That reminded him-- Reese's change. "Oh, hey, before I forget, I've got your change from the store."  
  
Reese looked up from his plate. "There was change?"  
  
"Yeah. Gimme a sec--" He dug out his wallet. Here: here was the receipt, which he had carefully kept, and here was the three bucks, and... there was the twenty, too, crisp and clean in his wallet. He passed Reese the receipt, the three worn bills and the coins.  
  
Reese actually smiled at him. "Thanks," he said as he took the money.

"Yeah. No problem."   
  
He folded his wallet shut. He started to, anyway-- found himself staring down at a picture of Lee. It was one of those awful posed studio pics against a green crushed velvet background or something, and Lee looked dopey as hell, with his ears jutting out on either side of his head and two teeth missing in the big grin he was shooting the camera. Two years old, that photo was. He wondered if Lee had grown into his ears yet. Lionel ran his thumb against the cheap plastic protector that covered his wallet picture. Less than a week to go, now. So soon, and still forever, and Christ, he had so much to make up for with the kid...

Look at that dumb face. Smiling at him from the photo, like he thought his dad, the cop, was the greatest guy in the known universe, or some similar bullshit.

Lee probably didn't think that anymore.

...shit. Goddammit, _shit,_ it wasn't like Lee was ever gonna know, but--

Fusco gritted his teeth, grabbed the twenty, and yanked it out before he could change his mind. "Hey-- hey, I almost forgot, this is yours too, you gave me too much money."

Reese was in the process of getting to his feet, with his crutches: he stopped moving, and lifted his head to give Fusco a long, blank look. "Sorry?"

He waggled the bill at Reese, Christ, take it already. "This. 's yours. You gave me a hundred, earlier."

The seconds seemed to stretch, while he stared at the crisp green bill in his own outstretched fingers rather than look at Reese. Finally, Reese took it from him. "Oh. Did I? Thanks."

"Yeah, sure," Fusco sighed, and picked up Reese's plate from the table. So it'd be ramen for dinner again, probably.

This new-leaf stuff was _bullshit_.

***

He hit the shower when he got back to the Y, washing off the sweat from the hot drive back to the city. The water pounding down helped with the knotted tension in his shoulders, but the white noise didn't calm down his thoughts like he'd hoped. He came out of the showers still itching for something to hit.

The front desk said that nobody had been asking about him. He didn't know if that made him relieved, or whether he'd have felt better if the girl at the desk had said, yeah, that guy right there-- then he could have turned around, bulled across the common room, and just fucking punched somebody.  
  
He said, okay, thanks, and he stood there a moment trying to figure his next move.  
  
"Hey, man."  
  
He spun around-- Marcus. The sight of the other guy didn't make him relax. Did he work for HR after all? Had his gut wariness been right? Marcus gave away nothing. He stood there with his exercise duffel bag over his shoulder, brows mildly arched at him.

Fusco made his fist unclench. "Hey."

"You hitting the weights?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess. You?"

"Nah, just finished my workout. Gotta get to work."

Fusco looked at him. Marcus looked back, calm, even, a little quizzical-- _what?_ And he didn't have that gut feeling that said the guy was fucking with him, leading him on: his gut said that Marcus was okay...

His gut had always said Stills was okay, too.   
  
"Have a good one," he said, and he watched Marcus leave the building, head out down the sidewalk until he couldn't see him anymore. He could follow him: see if he really worked at a club like he said, tail him home, sure--

\--Christ. He wasn't a cop anymore And if Marcus was HR then what the fuck, realistically, could he do about it? Punch the fucker? Yeah, no thanks, he knew first-hand that Marcus could literally bench-press Lionel's own body weight and he didn't give himself good odds on a rumble with the guy. It was different when it was just you-- when you had no backup to call, and no gun either. If Marcus were HR, then he was just plain fucked sideways because great, they knew where he was and he couldn't leave.

No. Wait. If Marcus were HR, why were they nosing around at Janet's looking for him? That didn't make any goddamned sense. Fusco ran his fingers through his shower-damp hair and took a deep breath.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered until he had something he could do about it. Right now, he needed to eat some supper, and do some laundry (hm, maybe he could wash his clothes at Finch's, he thought, just sneak 'em in with their fancy crap and not have to hunt quarters), and--

\--fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ The apartment, he was supposed to be at the fucking _apartment_ \-- goddamnit, what time was it-- where the _fuck_ had he left his phone--

Fusco all-but-ran out to his car, digging out his keys. His phone wasn't in his pockets-- had he left it in the car, he must've--

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows in the small parking lot behind the YMCA. Fusco figured he could call the lady, tell her he was gonna be late, if he got lucky with the traffic he might not be _too_ late, but first he had to call her. He rounded the corner, scanned the lot for his car-- and stopped.

There was somebody standing at his car...


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added a floorplan for the house to the 'reference' chapter. It's not set in stone, but at least it provides a general layout. 
> 
> ...no, I don't need a life, why do you ask?

There was somebody standing at his car.

Fusco's feet slowed down, even as his mind kicked into overdrive. Now the guy was crouching, down in front of his car. He couldn't make out much beyond dark hair and a black leather jacket. 

Should he get closer, or stand back far enough that he could still run? If this got ugly, his only chance was to be close enough to hit first, hit hard, and drop the other guy-- but if the man was packing a gun, then Fusco didn't like his odds any way you sliced it. He could turn around now, he thought. He hadn't been spotted yet.

...but Lee. It came down to that: _but Lee_. If HR already knew he was here, then running did nothing at all, because they could always find his son. Fusco swallowed. He clenched his hands into fists, unclenched them, several times, and he rolled his head side to side as he walked forward.

The guy was reaching under his car, but he must've caught Fusco's approach from the corner of his eye because he drew his hand back and stood up and gave him a smile and nod. "Hey."

Fusco looked him over. Not anyone he knew. The guy was taller than Fusco (but fuck that, everyone was), but not what you'd call tall: just average. He moved easy, though, with a wiry kind of strength to him. Dark eyes, black hair slicked back-- looked Italian. Kind of a pretty-boy, but there was a nasty scar over one cheek that broke it up a little. Fusco saw the bump of the gun at the small of his back, under the jacket, and he guessed there was a knife or two under that jacket as well. Fusco kept his weight balanced on his feet, and his hands free. 

"Hey yourself. Help you?" he said, when he wanted to say, _fuck you, fuck off, get the fuck away from my car, sure, it's a piece of shit, but get away from it._

The guy's smile broadened, crinkling the corners of his eyes, making his scar twist up. He said, "Thought I'd see if I could help you, actually."

He breathed, carefully. "Yeah? How's that?"

Scar-face jerked his head towards his piece-of-shit car and held up his hand. He had engine oil on his fingertips. "You got a bad leak there."

"Thanks. I know. Who the hell are you?" 

"A friend," said the guy, and smiled, and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops like he didn't have a fucking care in the world. Christ, but he wanted to launch himself at the guy; probably he could get him onto the ground before Scar got his hands back up again, but... he _couldn't_ , not until he knew what the fuck was going on, what they wanted. Didn't do him any good to beat down one HR shithead when they'd just keep coming.

"Usually I know my friends' names," he said. 

"That's fair," said Scar, and stuck out his hand. "Name's Marconi." 

Fusco took another measured breath. He really wanted to look behind him and see if anyone was blocking the mouth of the parking lot. Fuck, but this was like being back in the communal showers, or the weight room in the prison: trying to figure out if every interaction was a prelude to getting a toothbrush shiv in the kidney... The reflections in the windows of the nearest cars didn't show him anyone. 

He shook the guy's hand because he didn't know what else to do. "Fusco," he said, "but I'm guessing you know that." 

_Yeah_ , said Scar-coni's grin, _yeah, I do._ He put his hands back in his pockets, and he looked deliberately down at the car, and then at the YMCA building, and then back to Fusco. "So... it's rough, getting back on your feet, huh?"

 _Man, fuck you_. Fusco looked it silently at the asshole, who kept talking. "You need any help? Because we have a mutual friend who wanted me to check in on you. He said he respects it, if you want to do it on your own, but he just wanted me to let you know you don't _gotta_ do it on your own."

The air that he'd drawn in, with his many careful breaths, left Fusco in a wheeze. So. So, not HR after all. 

Carl. 

***

He'd said-- something, to get the guy to fuck off. He didn't remember what. Probably it had been more-or-less polite; thanks-but-no-thanks, something like that. He'd never mouthed off once to Carl back in the joint and he wasn't about to start now. 

The guy had left, that was the thing. Given him this smile and shrug that said, _it's your loss, pal_ , and sauntered off whistling a tune Fusco didn't recognize. 

He'd unlocked his car and sat in it for a little bit, staring out the dusty windshield, until his phone rang and it was the apartment lady and he was late now, and was he still interested, or just wasting her time--

*** 

Wednesday morning he drove the drive out of the city with the knowledge that he'd have really preferred to be in bed still. He'd slept like shit the night before, worrying the issue of Carl Elias over and over in his head.

It wasn't like Carl had taken him in, in prison, out of the kindness of Carl's heart. Or because Carl had needed a bitch so badly. There were plenty who'd have done fine, if that was all Carl had wanted; Fusco didn't hold any illusions regarding his particular desirability as a bit of prison ass. No: Carl had wanted him because he was HR, and because Carl thought he could flip him. 

He hadn't flipped, though. What he'd said to Stills held true. He was no snitch. HR had thrown him under a two-ton bus, and he didn't owe them anything anymore, but he'd still never ratted them out: not to the cops, not to the feds, and not to Elias either. 

And Carl hadn't really pushed him, either: not the way HR would have. Elias had never threatened to withdraw his protection, had never pointed out that all he had to do was just make it clear around the joint that Lionel was fair game, and he'd be dogmeat by sundown, so maybe Lionel had better reconsider his priorities-- no. Carl had always smiled and said bullshit like, _Your loyalty does you a lot of credit, Lionel, that's a trait I like in the people who work for me, maybe someday you'll feel you can share that information with me._

HR did things by brute force, broken doors and shotgun shells. Carl was like erosion. He wore you down. 

If he'd known he had a longer sentence waiting for him than two years, Fusco thought he might have caved. Because, at the end of the day, he still had to survive. But no, two years, he could do two years, and he'd done two years, and then out, and he'd thought Elias wasn't likely to still give a damn about him, after that. 

Well. Wrong again, Fusco. 

He parked the car, behind the house, like usual, and got out squinting up at the already-hot sun. It was gonna be another scorcher. Wednesday was sweeping and shit, though, so it was mostly working inside, so... it could have been worse.

Work was weird, though. Seemed like Reese was there every time he turned around. He swept the kitchen-- and Reese was in and out of it, getting crap from the fridge, making him have to stop what he was doing, let Reese past... He swept the long main hallway-- and Reese was for some reason always in the process of going in or coming out of the TV room.

Well, the guy's leg was doing better, maybe. He was trying to move around on it more. Sure. Right. 

There were a fuckload of rugs, he realized. The big Persian rug in the entry hallway, and a bigger one in the sa- _lon_ , and small rugs in the bathroom and the utility room and the kitchen, and the rugs in the library, and he'd shaken out the small ones last week but what exactly were you supposed to do with the big-ass ones? What was the entry rug, twelve feet on a side? Fifteen? Couldn't throw _that_ in the laundry machine.

He had some idea of dragging it out into the sunlight to shake, or-- were you supposed to beat rugs like this, was that how it worked? Drape it over something and hit it with a broom? He crouched down and lifted a corner to see how heavy it was, and, nope, it was heavy alright-- but also, _Reese was there_ , in his peripheral vision, where the entry met the main hall, and Fusco jumped in his skin and wobbled forward onto the rug with one hand splayed and bit his tongue before he could say _Don't sneak up on me, you goddamn ninja asshole!_

Reese just gave him a look, brows arched, _what?_ and moved on down the hall, limp-crutch, limp-crutch, and disappeared from his line of vision. He could hear the low buzz of him talking to Finch. Fusco stayed where he was a moment and thought how the rug was a great size to roll a fuckin' corpse up into, like, say, the corpse of a goddamn ninja asshole. 

He took some deep breaths and got to his feet. Relax. Stop it. He was just jumpy because of Elias's guy. Reese was past the shanking-him phase. Probably. 

Fusco grabbed some of the small rugs from the other rooms and made his way to the open door to Finch's office, and rapped on the frame with his free hand.

Reese was sitting on the bay window bench, looking his way already; Mr. Finch swiveled his chair to face him, brows arched over his glasses. "Yes, Lionel?"

"Hey, uh, sorry to interrupt... did you have any other rugs you wanted me to do?"

Finch blinked at him, and Fusco shifted his weight foot-to-foot, conscious of being the focus of their stares. "You know. In your room or anything."

"Oh-- oh, right, yes, one second--"

He stepped back to let Finch past and into the bedroom. This time Finch left the door open: he glanced despite himself, jesus, the bedroom _might_ have been bigger than his old apartment? Okay, probably not quite, but it was big. A bigass, four-poster bed with a bigass bedspread, and bigass windows that let in the light, and a dark hardwood floor that stretched and stretched... Finch disappeared briefly from sight, came back into view with a bathroom rug or two tucked under his arm and headed for the bed, for the rugs on either side of that big fucking thing. Fusco saw him reach out a hand to the bed for steadiness as he bent stiffly down--

"Hey, here, let me grab those--"

"Ah, that's kind of you..."

He grabbed the rugs up, his armful was growing, and Finch pushed the bathroom rugs into his arms as well with a little smile. "There we are, thank you, Lionel."

"No sweat." He stood there a second, trying to shuffle the armful into something more manageable, while Finch stood there beaming at him. Fusco glanced down at the big bedspread. "Hey, one other thing--"

"Yes?"

"How do you want me to clean those big rugs, like the one by the front door?"

Some complicated expression danced across Finch's face that Lionel couldn't really put a name to, like he'd said something other than what Finch had expected. "Oh. Well, you can vacuum them without any issue. Beyond that, they don't need deep cleaning terribly often-- it's a bit of a chore. Once every three months, perhaps. I suppose they're probably due soon."

"Okay. So what, do I use soap or--"

Finch looked alarmed. "No, no. Soap will make the colors run. Vinegar and water. Actually, there's a professional company in the city that can do it, it's probably better to just take them in..."

"Hey, no, if it's something I can do, you don't need to shop it out, I don't mind learning."

"No, no, really, they're so big and unwieldy-- I'd hate for you to throw your back out with the rugs," Mr. Finch tutted.

Jesus, Finch was worried about his _back?_ He thought humorlessly it was a bit late for that, with all the hours he'd clocked on cleaning detail, scrubbing goddamn prison toilets.

"Yeah... I'm not _that_ old, thanks-- I can handle rugs, boss."

Finch's mouth quirked, but he didn't look convinced. "I'll tell you what-- next week, perhaps you might drive the rugs into the city for us, so neither John nor myself have to try and wrestle with them," he said, and Fusco guessed he had to be okay with that, even if he wasn't sure those fuckers would fit in his car. Even if he wasn't sure there would be a next week.

Reese watched him walk past the study door, carrying the small rugs, and Fusco felt the back of his head burning all the way down the hall.

***

Outside was hot and bright, dust and grass motes hanging in the air like bugs stuck in honey. He shook out the rugs against the side of the garage, watching the dust and little hairs puff free. Then he took a broom to them too, and that felt good, smacking the shit out of them, hitting them, taking out last night's gut-clenching worry on an object that needed a good fuck-you-up beating. 

He found himself wishing he had taken a swing at Elias's guy. Probably, in the big picture, it would have been stupid, a stupid thing to do, but goddamn. He needed a fight. He needed a good fat-lip, bloody-nose, skinned-knuckles _fight_ , and there was nobody in his world he could risk it with it. Take a shot at Reese? Yeah, no, especially not when the guy seemed to be coming around-- he might have been a dumbass, but he wasn't so big a dumbass he was gonna ruin that progress, thanks. Sucker-punch one of HR's boys, one of Elias's? Momentarily satisfying, sure, but it would rain more shit down on his head than he had any chance of surviving.

He wondered if Marcus would box with him. Wasn't quite what he wanted, the guy was-- fuck, ha, Fusco let out a harsh, short laugh into the still summer air-- the guy was maybe the closest thing he had to a friend right now, and a match with a friend was different than what he wanted. 

He wanted... blood under his nails. That sort of fight. He didn't think of himself as a particularly violent man, leastwise not compared to people like Simmons and all, no, he was the guy who liked talking, and joking, and tried to defuse things first a hell of a lot of the time-- but god _dammit_ , he'd sat on his anger for two years in stir, sat on and sat on it because survival came first, play smart, be smart, don't bite anyone's fingers-- and he was out now, and nothing had changed, there were still too many people he couldn't afford to piss off.

Maybe he'd go to the bar after all, he thought. Not to drink, just pick a fight with some random asshole who had. 

A dog's bark interrupted his train of thought and he looked up to see Bear, running across the lawn. The dog hunted for something, a little dot-- a ball-- turned, and raced back to Reese, who was on the footpath by the house. He watched them for a bit: Reese would hop with the crutch for a few steps, stop, wait for Bear; Bear would bring the ball; Reese would throw it-- repeat. 

Hey, if Reese were up to walking his own damn dog again, that was great as far as Fusco was concerned. 

He got the last of the rugs shaken out and headed back to the house, more than ready for the sweet kiss of the AC again. He couldn't really claim that it was hotter out here than a summer in the city-- probably the city won that by a fair margin, with all the fucking cars and the asphalt and the steel and concrete and buildings turning everything into an oven-- but it was a different quality of heat. NYC in summer was a hellish mess of angry people, short tempers, busy streets, sidewalks you could fry an egg on... shout, shove, push, move, get where you were going and get there fast. 

The heat out here was lazy, sticky, sleepy. The heat out here said, _hey, Fusco, get some ice water from the fridge and sit on the porch for ten minutes, Mr. Finch won't care, he'd probably bring you the goddamn water to be A Nice Guy if you said two peeps about being hot.... just sit down, take a break..._

Yeah, if he did that, he wouldn't get back up again. So the arctic cold of the house was good for keeping him awake and working. He got the rugs back where they were supposed to be (Finch just waved him into the bedroom to put those rugs back, barely looking up from his laptop, and so he awkwardly stepped into their bedroom again, dumb to feel like an intruder when you weren't one, when you were just the hired help, and holy shit that was one hell of a bathroom, white marble and blue tile and Christ, okay, the rugs went here--) and after that it was probably time he got to thinking about lunch.

"Hey, anything in particular you want for lunch?" he said to the back of Mr. Finch's spiky head. 

Finch swiveled his chair around halfway, his brows lifted but his eyes still glued to the screen. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, it's," he checked his watch, "nearly one."

"So it is," Finch said after a beat, and he finally looked away from the computer, twisting in his chair with a grimace like his shoulders and neck were hurting. "Oh, I don't know, did you have something in mind? You needn't go all out like with the lasagne, you know-- it was delicious, but I don't expect you to cook a four-course meal every day." 

"I can do simple," Lionel said with a shrug. "Got some chicken leftover-- how about chicken salad sandwiches, iced tea...?" He paused, then went on, "You got vanilla ice cream in the freezer, and I grabbed fresh peaches when I did my grocery run: there's dessert."

Mr. Finch made a little noise. "I am going to have to include a salary bump for the cooking, aren't I?"

He grinned despite himself. "Well, you know, I'm not sayin' no."

Finch smiled his small smile and brushed a bit of imaginary lint from his shirt-cuff. "Sandwiches and tea... and peaches-and-ice-cream.... sound splendid, Lionel, thank you."

"You got it," Fusco said, and tapped his palm twice against the doorframe as he headed for the kitchen. Funny gesture, that, he thought as he opened the fridge. It had been automatic habit but he guessed it was muscle memory of tapping the roof of a patrol car, _you're good, take 'em away._

Funny, the shit that stayed with you.

He diced the cooked chicken up into small shreds. Lee liked a good chicken salad sandwich, but Lee liked his with a strip of crispy bacon on it too. There was bacon in their freezer-- he thought about it, but no, that was for Lee, that was Lee's thing. Sweet red onion, celery, mayonnaise-- squirt of mustard into the bowl, except they didn't have the bright yellow mustard squeeze bottle, they had the fancy shit, Dijon-in-a-jar, so he spooned a spoonful of that-- and you couldn't forget your lemon juice, your salt and your pepper... 

He was toasting the bread when Reese came back in with Bear. You could hear the dog, at least: nails clicking on the floors, big dumb happy mutt for all he looked like someone's worst day-- Bear ran over to him and butted him in the hip and licked at his elbow before sitting there all eager expectation, his tail thwacking the floor.

"Yeah, big boy? What do you want?" he murmured to the dog as he pushed the bowl of chicken back from the counter's edge and out of dog-range.

"Probably one of his treats," Reese said from the door. "We put them in that cupboard by the fridge."

"Ah. Right." When Reese didn't make a move for them, Fusco opened the cabinet and got the bag out. Bear ate one like he was fuckin' starving (yeah, right, he saw the dog's big bowl heaped with food all the time), so Fusco gave him another one with a sidelong look at Reese but Reese didn't seem to care.

"Lunch'll be ready in a few," he said. The toaster dinged, and he washed his hands off under the sink, just to make sure Reese had no reason to bitch, before getting the bread out and starting to smear the chicken salad on thick.

"Sounds good," said Reese, and then he said, "You know your car's still leaking oil?"

Son-of-a-- he snapped the knife flat to the cutting board as his head snapped up, fucking Christ, was everyone a fucking _mechanic?_ He took a breath, and forced his face into something vaguely smile-like.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks, though."

Reese's gaze was mild (amused?); he shrugged. "I'll just go wash up before lunch."

"You do that," he said, and smeared on more chicken salad with a vengeance.


	21. Chapter 21

"Good morning, John."

"Morning, Harold. Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you. Though I did notice something last night odd before I came down to bed..."  
  
"Oh?"

"Yes-- do you know, apparently, yesterday afternoon, _somebody_ tried to clone our employee's phone? Fortunately I've been testing out a little program to detect attempts to interfere with our surveillance, and, while it's nice to know that it works, I admit I wasn't expecting the system to trigger here. I don't imagine you know _anything about such an attempt,_ do you."

"Uhmm."

"Yes, I'm sure the paper is quite fascinating. You know, John, I do already _have_ his phone tapped. And he has yet to make any reports to his evil overlords, I assure you."

"Hmn. He knows better than to trust his phone, then."

"… you are _impossible."_

***

On Thursday Fusco scrubbed the kitchen, top to bottom, even if it was barely dirtied from last week. He'd never kept house this goddamn well before. Pull twelve hours at the precinct with the overtime that was every cop's problem, and who the hell had time to give a shit about where you lived? He'd tried to tidy a little before time with Lee, yeah-- pick up his dirty clothes from the bathroom floor, make sure the dishes were done-- but that was, y'know, the basic standard of civilized. God knew he'd never fucking dusted the top of his fridge, in ten years in that apartment.

Well, he didn't have any other job to worry about, now. All he had to do was get this place fucking pristine, so fine, do that. Scrub things until they gleamed. He mopped the kitchen tile. He polished the faucet. He organized the spice cabinet, and the under-the-sink space too.

Busy work with his hands, like in prison, and it had been kind of zen in prison-- he could get to this place where he didn't think much, where he didn't worry, he just worked and breathed, worked and breathed, and maybe he'd have been able to do that today too if not for the fact that John Reese was camped at the goddamn kitchen table reading the newspaper.

When he'd seen Reese there he paused. But okay. Whatever. Didn't matter to him if Reese parked his ass in the TV room all day or enjoyed his paper and coffee in the kitchen first. Or maybe Reese just wanted to watch him bust his back with the grunt-work. Didn't matter if that were true either. Enjoy the view, or whatever.

When Reese was still there an hour into his cleaning (nursing a third cup of coffee), Fusco found himself getting antsy. He wrung out a sponge in the sink and asked, "What, ESPN off the air today?"

Reese shrugged and turned another page in the paper, slow, like he had all the time in the world. "There's always Tivo."

He stared a bit at Reese's bent head, but Reese didn't look up from the paper, and Fusco carried on what he was doing. Finally he was down to busy work, looking for things to scrub in the already-pristine kitchen, and still Reese was there, and what was the game, now? The open hostility was gone, but shit if maybe that hadn't made more sense. Now Reese was this blandly-smiling cipher, and it made his shoulderblades itch, it made him think that any second he'd feel a heavy hand on his shoulder, a punch to his kidneys, but every time he whipped his head up Reese was still sedately reading, and how the fuck long did it take someone to read the fucking paper? --Chrissake, he was doing the crossword, Fusco realized on one worried look-over.

Fusco gave up. He started on the garbage. At least Reese wasn't likely to follow him outside for that. Kitchen, bathrooms (Finch told him to go right in and grab the bag himself this time from the master bath), study (a bag of shredded documents), the yard clippings... He stood by the garbage cans at the end of the driveway, breathing in the sticky summer heat and the brief respite from watching eyes.

It was Thursday. Jesus, the time went. It was Thursday, so he had one more day of this, one more day of _trial period,_ before he knew whether or not this would last. Christ, though-- he'd made, what, twenty-five hundred bucks so far? Not goddamn bad. Miles better than anything else in the paper would have netted him. Enough to make him want to keep the job, no matter what Reese said or did.

It was Thursday, which meant he had to pick up their dry-cleaning and anything else Finch wanted him to do in town. Fusco stopped by his car before heading back inside, checking that the rags were in place beneath the engine to keep their driveway clean.

It was Thursday, which meant.... two days before Lee? Janet hadn't said he'd be home on the weekend, though. She hadn't said what day at all, just _two weeks,_ and Fusco guessed that maybe they'd keep the camp thing going all weekend, come home on Monday, that was probably how it worked. Still. Still, it was soon. So soon, and he wasn't as ready as he'd wanted to be-- no apartment yet, no _place,_ but if he could keep making this sort of money, then two more weeks and he'd actually be in a position to apartment-hunt for real, as long as he could sock most of it away, and...

He should try and find a mechanic this week, he thought. Someone to look at that oil leak. In the old days he would have taken the car to Benny's, but Benny was where all the guys took their cars, and he thought about the odds of running into Stills there, or Fitzpatrick, or Jackson, or any of them, and no, he wouldn't take it to Benny's.

Hell, he knew a little bit about engines. Maybe he could fix it himself, save himself a couple hundred bucks. Worth a shot anyway.

Inside, he headed down the hall to Finch's office. Reese wasn't at the kitchen table anymore, but he wasn't in the TV room either; he caught himself peeking into each room he passed but there was a lack of Reese all the way down to the study.

"Hey, uh, I was getting ready to run into town and pick up that dry cleaning from Tuesday. You got anything else that needs doing?"

Mr. Finch turned his chair again. "Oh-- yes, actually. Bear has a vet's appointment at one-thirty, and you might stop by the post office to pick up a parcel for us...?"

"Sure. You want me to get lunch squared away first, or...?"

"Hmm, perhaps you might drop Bear off, and bring something back from town to eat?"

"You got it. Anything I should know, taking him to the vet?"

"I'll help you with him," said Reese, from behind him, and he jumped half a goddamn foot.

Mr. Finch looked about as startled as Lionel felt, though he wiped it off his face pretty quick. "Oh? You're-- planning to go with Lionel?"

"Sure," said Reese, and he could _hear_ the guy's smile. "I need to get out of the house more anyway. Right?"

"...right," said Finch slowly. And now Fusco was turned enough to see Reese's smile, and goddamn if that wasn't the very _definition_ of a shit-eating grin.

Reese beamed down at him. "You don't mind playing chauffeur, right, Lionel?"

He had taken a step into Finch's study without thinking about it, when he realized Reese was behind him; now he took another, caught awkwardly in the doorway between hall and room. "I-- uh, no, but my car's not-- I mean, I'd have to clear out some stuff to make room for you--"

Reese dismissed this with a look at Finch. "We'll take the Lincoln. Keys, Harold?"

Mr. Finch gave Fusco an odd little smile as he handed over the keyring. Fusco supposed it was meant to be encouraging.

***

He supposed there were a lot of times he'd been more nervous in his life, more scared of fucking up. Yeah. Yeah, sure there were. Jobs with HR, or the moment when he'd realized he was going to prison, (he really was, there wasn't gonna be any last-minute intercession from an HR-owned judge like he'd thought), and there'd been a shit-ton of moments like that in prison itself, and, Christ, in the two weeks he'd had since getting back out he'd felt his heart in his throat at least half-a-dozen times now--

\--sure. Sure, there were a lot of times that probably eclipsed this on any rational scale. Times when his life had literally hung in the balance. In light of all that he figured this shouldn't be such a big goddamn deal.

He wiped his hands twice on his trousers in between adjusting the mirrors and the seat of the Lincoln.

What the fuck did this car cost? Forty grand? Fifty? He realized he didn't actually know. He'd never priced out a Lincoln, not like you did with a Shelby Mustang or whatever your dream car happened to be. It cost a lot, though, he knew that much. A hell of a lot more money than any car he had ever driven. And driving was driving, that in itself maybe didn't matter so much, but goddamn it, he had Reese sitting in the passenger seat and a fucking Army dog panting in the back and it wasn't exactly your fuckin' ideal condition for getting behind the wheel.

He did his best not to look at Reese. He just went slow, exploring where all the switches were, adjusting the steering column, and when he finally took the car out of park and eased it down the driveway, it was such a smooth-riding thing that for a second he wasn't sure they were actually moving.

Great suspension, check, but it was a big-ass car and he made a mental note that it might handle smooth but it wouldn't handle tight; he had to give himself room on the turns. Like driving a boat or something. Not that he'd ever done that either.

The wrought-iron gate swung open for them and Fusco inched down the tree-lined street, past the brick-and-ivy houses, at fifteen miles an hour as he tested out how sticky the brakes and gas were. Reese was looking at him-- he was pretty sure Reese was smirking at him, really-- but he kept his eyes forward and slowly gave it a little more gas until they were cruising at thirty. Good enough for residential.

"So," he said, as the AC blasted cold into their faces, "so what's this about, then."

Reese shrugged in his peripheral, leaned back lazy and stretched into his seat with one arm along his windowsill. "Maybe I just wanted to get out of the house."

"Bull _shit."_

They came to the first turn, onto a bigger street, and Fusco rolled to a baby-gentle stop before the stop sign. Then he almost freaked out all over again as it occurred to him how fucked he was if he hit _somebody else_ , if he scratched one of the Beamers or Mercedes that filled the town. _Christ._ He snuck his hand down for another wipe of his sweaty palm on his thigh.

In the passenger seat, Reese was smirking. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. Fusco pressed his teeth together, his molars shoving against each other like people trying to get on-and-off the subway at the same time, and then he hit the gas and pulled out onto the bigger road more aggressively than he really needed to.

Reese swayed a little into the door but that smirk never wavered. "Take it easy, Lionel. She's sensitive."

He breathed. _Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up..._ "I'll be sure not to hurt her feelings."

It was clear to him now that Reese hadn't been warming up to him after all. Reese had just been shifting gears. He didn't know what punch was coming, right now (so to speak); whether it was gonna be a right hook or an uppercut or a gutshot, but _he knew one was coming,_ dammit.

They rolled into town, along the cobblestone streets and past the art galleries and boutiques and shit. The Lincoln rode smooth, but that had a hidden danger: it was easy to lose track of how fast he was going, when he didn't have the ingrained clues of the way his Toyota started making that little ticking hum at 40 MPH, and started vibrating a little at 55. Fortunately the traffic on the streets mostly constrained him, there wasn't the risk of slipping into sixty when you were moseying behind a vintage Jaguar.

"Car on your left," Reese said, nonchalantly, and he did not say, _I fucking see it,_ and so it went. Reese was a backseat driver to shame all other backseat drivers; Fusco would have sworn that thirty seconds couldn't go by without Reese pointing out "That's a stop sign coming up" or "The speed limit here is twenty" or "A little close to the car ahead, aren't you?"

They reached the vet's office without crashing, somehow, and Lionel parked, and got out of the car, and thought that he had never, _ever_ wanted a drink, or a smoke, as bad as he wanted one right now. Reese said something as he shut the door, he couldn't catch what it was-- _beef? bleep?_ \--and he gritted his teeth and turned back to ask what it was but Reese just smiled and shrugged and shook his head. So Fusco took a moment to walk around the car, and smoke an imaginary cigarette, and run his fingers through his hair while Reese couldn't see him, and he reminded himself that he had endured a long time in prison, and a lot of shit too, and that things like 'telling you how to drive' ranked a lot lower than taking a shower wondering if anyone was going to jump you, or having to come when Carl Elias called, so... so ignore it. Ignore it, it was nothing, it was noise.

He took a few more deep breaths, and then he opened the backseat door. "C'mon out, Bear."

The dog sat there.

He cleared his throat. "Bear. C'mere. Come here," he said, and he patted at his thigh, and he whistled, and Bear gave him a long look and settled his head down on his paws and didn't move. Reese watched all this over the dividing seat.

The sun was baking down hot on his back despite how cool the car's interior was. Fusco licked his lips. " _Bear._ Come on, boy, come outside, be a good boy, let's go. Here, boy. C'mere."

Bear turned his head away, as flat a rejection as any girl had ever given him. Fusco looked up to Reese a little desperately. "Does he hate the vet or something?"

Reese shrugged. "Never had any problems before."

He stared at Reese a moment, and then he reached in and got his hands on Bear's collar and started trying to haul him out of the car.

"Mmm, I wouldn't do that if I were you," Reese observed, and Bear punctuated it with a growl that Fusco could feel in his goddamn bones, while he could see a line of perfectly white, sharp teeth under that black canine lip. He let go quick.

"Come _on,_ Bear," he said, and crouched down and tried to plead telepathically with the dog by staring into those brown eyes. _Don't you do this to me, dammit, I bought you expensive BBQ-flavored dog treats with my own money!_ He should have thought to bring one with him now, but he hadn't. 'Course he hadn't. He'd thought Reese was going to _help._

He shot a look up at Reese. Reese had his arm on the seatback, his chin resting on it, his eyes placidly watching all this.

"I thought you said you'd help with the dog," he snapped. Reese's brows drifted upward like lazy bubbles in a thick lager.

"Oh, do you need help?"

He stood there a second, hands balled in fists at his sides, the sun glaring down on the top of his scalp. What an amazing _asshole_ the guy was. He ran over about eight things he wanted to say (let alone the things he wanted to _do_ ), and then he ground out, "It'd be nice, yeah."

"Hmm." Reese twisted around, and lazily opened the passenger door, and collected his crutch from the back seat, and got out, while Finch stood there. Reese came around, gimp-gimp-gimp, until they were both there in that little aisle of space between the Lincoln and the car next to it.

"Funny," Reese said, no more than a good elbow-to-the-jaw's distance from him, "I wouldn't have thought a convicted extortionist would have trouble getting cooperation. Bear-- _voruit."_

The dog sprang to instant life, jumping down and trotting at Reese's side to the vet building, while Fusco stood there with his hand on the car door and thought how Reese's body would make a goddamn great addition to all the others buried out in Oyster Bay.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threw in a picture of the Maserati back in the reference chapter.

_"...up the AC now, kids: it's going to be a hot one. Highs for the city will hit one-oh-four, so fill your ice cube trays, check your pets, and don't work too hard, New York. And now here's Lenny with traffic."_

_"Thanks, Kim. Traffic into Brooklyn on Grand Central is snarled up for several miles, so if you're coming from Long Island, be prepared to wait... Apparently the holdup is due to a truck of fresh seafood that overturned on the bridge, which sounds a little fishy to me..."_

"Leave it to Jay Leno, jackass," Fusco snarled at the radio as he glared at the cars ahead of him. Fortunately, he was heading east, not west: driving out of the city, not into it. Unfortunately, rubbernecking existed: the relatively light traffic on his side of the Grand Central Parkway had slowed to a crawl, and he was late.

Late for his last guaranteed day on the job, last guaranteed paycheck, last chance to make this work.

He rubbed at his face, trying to get out the feeling of grit in his eyes. Like last Friday, he'd overslept, and like last Friday, he'd run out the door without shaving. His jaw was prickly beneath his palm. The night before, he had beaten the hell out of the bag-- punching out the strain of three solid hours in Reese's company in which he'd had to take little insult after little insult, Reese's little 'observations' and looks and smiles-- and goddammit, it hadn't helped. The bag had swung and twisted and scraped his knuckles up good, and he'd dragged himself to the showers after, and he had still spent the night tossing and turning, itching, tense as a wire.

It wasn't all Reese's fault, he supposed as he glared at the taillights ahead of him. Some of it was still Elias's guy, sure. The not-knowing from that, the not-knowing how Carl would react. And some of it was that Janet hadn't called him back, and some of it was that the kid who was now in Fusco's top bunk was a twitchy junkie who had been in and out of the room four or five times during the night, not quietly, and Christ, he'd had better bunkmates in prison.

The point was, he hadn't slept well, and, while it might not _all_ have been Reese's fault, Reese was the person he was now going to have to spend another day around, and he was late, and today could already go fuck itself and it was only just past nine in the morning...

He didn't even get in the house before having to deal with Reese: Reese was outside with Bear, throwing the ball again, not too far from the driveway where he had to park. He got out, and Reese said, without turning his head to look at him, "You're late," and Fusco said nothing at all, with a lot of effort.

He headed inside the house, just out of the strong need to be out of Reese's presence for the space of time necessary to compose himself, to armor up for this. He ducked into the utility room bathroom and shut the door and cranked on the faucet, then glared at the mirror.

One day. He could get through that. This too was like prison: you didn't think about the sentence stretching before you, about years and years, you just thought, _Okay, I can manage today,_ and you did it, and then you did it the day after that, and the day after that too, and that was how you did your time.

He could handle Reese. He closed his eyes and he thought about some of the nastier pieces of work in the joint, the guys he had bellied up to Carl to avoid, the guys with the dead eyes and the slow smiles when they looked you over, and-- yeah. Yeah, Reese was nothing. Reese was noise. Reese was just an ex-hardass who had nothing better to do but suck cock, and fuck with the hired help in order to feel like he had a big dick, and he could laugh off an asshole like that any day of the week.

No sweat.

Mr. Finch was out at the kitchen dining room when he emerged, and threw him a look that was vaguely startled. "--oh, Lionel. You're--"

"Late, I know," he said, but he smiled to try and ease the tone of his voice. Mr. Finch blinked, and looked at the clock.

"So you are. I was going to say, you're just who I wanted to see."

"...yeah?" (Note to self: keep your stupid mouth shut.)

"Yes," said Finch, and tilted the tablet he was looking at to face him. "What do you think of this gazebo?"

He looked, uncertainly. It was... a gazebo, he guessed. A picture of a white latticed structure, with green vines and orange flowers crawling over it. He hazarded, "It looks nice?"

"Do you think so? I was also quite taken by the half-brick one, here, hang on--"

Fusco stood there as Mr. Finch brought up pictures of little buildings to put on your lawn. They got through four of them, and he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to say: they looked nice, sure, yes, maybe? He didn't know what you needed a building like that for to begin with, let alone Finch's criteria, so he just made appropriate noises and shifted his weight from foot to foot and flicked a glance at the kitchen clock.

"--well, you must have _some_ preference between them," Mr. Finch said a little reproachfully, and he jerked his attention guiltily back down to the screen.

"Uh. I liked the first one. Those flowers were-- nice." Ah, Jesus, was that the best he could do? What would Carl say? What would _Janet_ say? "I really like the, you know, the contrast between those flowers and the... darker leaves."

Mr. Finch peered up at him with interest. "Chinese trumpets are quite lovely, yes. Though that's not much to do with the gazebo itself, perhaps."

"No, that's true," he agreed quickly, in order to be agreeable.

"I've considered taking out the honeysuckle on the back porch trellis and putting in trumpet vine, what do you think?"

Hell, what the shit did he care? Fusco's mind spun like tires in slush. Honeysuckle-- that was the sweet-smelling stuff that the birds swarmed around, right? "The honeysuckle draws the, uh, the hummingbirds though, yeah?"  
  
"It does," Finch said with a happy little smile, like Fusco were some kinda genius, "but trumpet vine will too, really. It would just be a touch warmer a color than the honeysuckle, I think, against the brick of the house..."

Fusco ran a hand through his hair. "Sounds good," he threw out there, and, before Finch could go into a Powerpoint presentation on the pros and cons of honeysuckle, he hurriedly asked, "Look, uh, what did you want me to work on for today?"  
  
"Oh," said Mr. Finch, and put down the tablet. "Well. The garage could really use a thorough straightening up, and perhaps you might wash the cars? And a bit of weeding, just to keep things in check until Monday."

_Until Monday,_ Finch said, and it was so damn easy to think it was a sure thing, when he was around Finch: like it was just taken for granted, sure, of course he'd be back Monday, of course he had the job. Unlike when he was around Reese, when he would have bet Lee's college tuition that no, nope, he was still fucked. 

"You got it, boss," he said, and flipped Finch a joking salute that was a lot jauntier than he really felt. Finch half-smiled at him as he retreated back out the door.

***

He decided to get the weeding out of the way before it got any hotter. Fusco grabbed a trash bag from in the garage, and on reflection the gardening gloves too. He figured he'd start with the flowerbeds at the back of the house and work his way around. The first bed was a bunch of little flowers on low plants, blues and purples and whites. What did you call them? Tansies? Pansies? African violets? He pushed the leaves of each plant to one side, grabbed at the little sprigs of grass and other weeds, and yanked them free to toss them into the garbage bag. 

...but it wasn't African violets, was it? Those were the ones with the fuzzy leaves, the ones Janet said you couldn't touch 'cuz it would kill them. He had vague memories of that, anyway, early in their marriage, her having plants on the windowsill. Usually they'd just gone brown and died and she had to throw them out and start over. 

He knew what the line of bushes along the east side of the house was, at least; you had to be a real moron to not know roses when you saw them. It was about the only flower on the grounds he was sure of. Maybe he ought to try and look the others up, he thought. Maybe the pansies or peonies or whatever they were would do better with a certain type of plant food, or something...

And then he thought, _Jesus, really?_ at himself. Christ, he was seriously thinking about looking up goddamn _flowers?_ Okay, blame Mr. Finch and his faggy little _Better Homes and Gardens_ obsession for that. Jesus. 

"Missed one."

He bit his tongue on a noise of surprise even as he turned from his crouch. It was Reese, of course it was Reese, who the fuck else would it be, standing there with his crutch and his dog, looking down at him. The sun was behind him, so he had to squint up into Reese's face, but he could still just make out Reese's smile.

Reese pointed with the tip of the crutch at a tiny little spike of green, right at the edge of the flowerbed, and Fusco pulled his lips back from his teeth. " _Thank you,"_ he said, and Reese said, "Oh, anytime," and Fusco ripped that single stupid fucking blade of grass out of the earth with a vengeance. 

But Reese followed him. Reese stuck with him as he moved to each of the flower beds, stood over him as he worked, pointed out weeds he hadn't gotten to yet, and Fusco thought about stupid, how completely stupid, it would be if he went back to prison for killing somebody two days shy of seeing his son again.

"You got nothing better to do with your day, huh?" he ground out (after Reese observed that he was ripping out a little too much dirt with the weeds, be _careful_ , Lionel). 

Reese thought about it, looking up at the summer sky for several long seconds. "Nope."

It was a little past ten. Seven more hours. He could handle seven more hours. 

Reese followed him to the garage, and unfolded a lawnchair, and sat and watched him work. It was a pain-in-the-ass already to straighten up somebody else's crap, when you didn't know what they used and didn't use, what had to be kept and what could be tossed, without a sleepy-eyed son of a bitch openly questioning your every choice. But that was what Reese was doing, and did, the whole time: _oh, do you really think the rakes should go there,_ and _mm, no, we need to keep all those nearly-empty bags of potting soil,_ and it went like that for two goddamned hours, as he took everything out of where it was, swept, wiped things off, sorted, replaced...

He kept his mouth shut. He didn't rise to the bait. He didn't even think too much about how swinging around and hitting Reese in the head with the shovel or the rake would feel _great._ He just worked, not looking at Reese, not answering him, don't give him the satisfaction and don't give him an excuse. He did what Reese said, changed how he was doing things every time Reese told him to, and he waited it out.

Reese had to get bored eventually. 

Each minute that ticked past was sixty-six cents in his pocket, so hell, Reese could make things take twice as long, that was fine. Fusco didn't care. He floated on a cloud of not-caring.

He was still glad enough to finish up with the garage and head inside to make lunch. He walked just fast enough to leave Reese, using his crutch, behind.

Fusco made a green salad and heated some leftovers up (noting with distant satisfaction they'd apparently finished off the lasagne), and Reese... had had enough, apparently; he went back into the TV room, with the dog at his heels, and Fusco exhaled into the coolness of the kitchen. Good. Good. See, not so bad.

Lunch went. Mr. Finch was bright and chipper at his spot between them at the table, but Reese didn't pull anything, just ate his food like a good dog. _...on good behavior around his master_ , Fusco thought involuntarily, and nearly choked on his iced tea with his own badly-timed laugh.  
  
"You want all the cars washed?" he asked Finch as he was clearing the table, and Finch smiled and said, yes, please, let me get you the keys--

Something twitched in Fusco's sternum-region as he recognized that not only would he be pulling the Lincoln out into the driveway to wash it, _and_ the Bentley, but also that silvery-gray sexy fuckin' sports car. Aww, jeez, that wasn't fair at all. That was just a cocktease, because goddamn, you got behind the wheel of a car like that, you wanted to take it _out,_ see what it could do.

It figured that the only one of the three he'd probably ever get to really drive would wind up having been the fuckin' Lincoln. 

The sun pounded down on him like a heavyweight champ as he made his way back to the garage, keys dangling from one finger. He should have done it earlier, he thought: washing the cars in the hottest part of the day meant he'd have to dry them fast, be careful that they didn't water spot.

That was okay. He looked the three cars over, like you'd look at a menu in a nice steakhouse: good, better, best?

The Lincoln was a nice car, sure. If you were a lawyer or a CEO or a politician or something. The Lincoln breathed old money. But it wasn't sexy, at least not in anything other than a grand-old-dame sorta way. 

The Bentley was a glacial white, in contrast to the black towncar. Sleek, clean, but with a low sort of heaviness to it that said _yeah, I got torque._ It was a car that meant business, but it was still old-school classy enough that Finch _could_ drive it to his office, Fusco guessed. It wouldn't look weird, among the other office cars. A little younger, maybe, but it was still in a suit and tie.

Then there was the sporty little one. Fusco crouched in front of it and ran his thumb over the grill logo. _Maserati_. Nice. Okay, his heart was with American cars any day of the week, and if someone had asked him if he wanted a '67 Shelby GT or this silvery shark, he would have said the Shelby... but it didn't change the fact that this was a nice goddamn looking car. If the Lincoln was a tuxedo, and the Bentley was business-casual... then the Maserati was a hot chick in a little black dress that left nothing to the imagination. 

He circled the car, slowly, amusing himself with the thought of how astronomically out of his budget it had to be. He wondered which of them had bought this one: didn't seem like Mr. Finch's kind of car, really... so, Reese's toy before he'd busted his leg? Maybe. Or maybe Finch had gotten it for him, _here, good job sucking dick, honey._

Man, all _he'd_ gotten out of cocksucking had been a stamp of PROPERTY OF CARL ELIAS - HANDS OFF. There was no justice in the world.

He drove the Maserati out first. He couldn't help himself. 

The interior was like a fuckin' alien spaceship, all sleek dials and screens. The exterior was even prettier in the sunlight. Lionel filled a bucket with water and soap and grabbed some sponges and towels from the garage. Car wasn't even dirty, really, other than a thin sheen of dust. He wondered when it had last been driven. Crying shame, for a car, any car, to just _sit,_ but man, a car like this...

"Wondering which old friend in the city you could drop a hot car with?" Reese said from _right goddamn behind him,_ and seriously, how the _fuck_ did he do that? He spun on his feet, the bucket half-raised like a weapon, to find himself face to face with Reese with barely a few inches between them. 

The prudent thing to do would be to back up. He was goddamn tired of backing up, and tired of Reese pulling this shit. So he stayed where the hell he was, and snapped, "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me," said Reese, gazing down at him with all that oozing contempt back in place. "Contacts within a corrupt police department... You probably know someone in motor crimes, right? You could arrange a VIN swap easy enough, get the papers fudged, sell to someone out of state, and split the profits. You wouldn't get full market value, of course, but still, a car like that, you'd pocket a good ten, fifteen grand, right? Or would that be too risky-- would you and your pals just book it to a chop shop?"

The sun was hot. There was a funny buzzing in his ears. The voice from this morning (which, he mused distantly, sounded a lot like Carl, really-- calm and steady, like a teacher's) was reminding him of all the good, solid reasons that he should back down, shut up, and take it: he'd come this far, right, so why fuck that up now... he was gonna see Lee soon, real soon... it was just words, it was just noise, it didn't matter... 

He could hear the voice fine. He just didn't want to listen to it. He stood there, a wet sponge dripping in his hand, gazing up at Reese as Reese talked about what a piece of shit he was. He could see every little detail, the way things got really clear sometimes when you were way fuckin' pissed off: he could see the hint of unshaven stubble on Reese's throat, the shadows under his eyes, his little curling smirk of disdain, the way Reese's body weight was canted to rest on the crutch, a little off-center...

Reese said, "Or do I have it wrong? Are you really just a nice little houseboy trying to start fresh, and stay on the wagon?"

It was the... the _disbelief_ , he thought. It was the fact that, just like with Janet, there was not one goddamn shred of faith in the idea that, yeah, he just _might_ be trying to do it right. 

So, you know, fuck it.

He just shoved. It wasn't a punch; it wasn't thought out well enough for that. He didn't even let go of the bucket. He just raised his hands, sponge and bucket and all, and put them right at Reese's sternum and _pushed._

_ That was really stupid, _ said the-voice-that-sounded-a-lot-like-Carl, and yeah, that was probably right, but as he watched Reese's eyes go wide in shock and Reese topple backward like a domino, all he could think was:  _Totally worth it._


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scene! If you are squeamish about physical violence, possibly avoid.

Time seemed to slow down and stretch out. Reese fell, backwards, his free arm wheeling in space. Fusco had time to notice random shit, like the fact that there was a wet spot on Reese's shirt-front now, where the water had sloshed out of the bucket, and how Reese didn't look half as scary when his mouth and eyes were comically round 'O's.

Reese hit the ground, the driveway, with an audible thump-and-wheeze of dead weight. For one split second Fusco felt a stab of white-hot joy that was probably up there in his Top 3 Life Moments. Top 5, at least. Let's see: becoming a dad, getting married, making the force, first time he'd had sex, and... dropping John Reese like the sack-of-shit he was. Sure.

The next fraction-of-a-second later, it morphed into something else. Shit. _Shit._ Awww, fuck. Yeah, he'd just detonated a nuke on his job chances, but aside from that... he'd just knocked down a guy with a fuckin' broken leg. An _asshole_ with a broken leg, but Christ, that was kinda low all the same. (Even if Reese had deserved it and then some--)

Reese was lying there, gasping for air, staring up bug-eyed, and Fusco gritted his teeth. The driveway was inlaid paving stones. Enough to knock the wind out of you, sure, but also enough to crack your skull. Had Reese hit his head? That would be about Fusco's luck.

"Shit," he said aloud. He dropped the bucket and ran his fingers through his hair. "Shit, okay, sorry, let me help you up--"

He bent to extend his hand-- and Reese's heel drove up and caught him dead in the nuts. Fusco crumpled like Kleenex.

...he was pretty sure he lost a couple seconds there, swallowed up by the world-encompassing pain that was a nut-shot. He came back in to find himself on his back, staring up at Reese. Reese had one knee planted on his chest and both hands around his throat, and Reese was grinning the grin of a psychotic down at him.

Fusco still had the sponge in hand. Muscle reflex, maybe, clutching tightly to it when he'd gotten kicked. He jammed it up into Reese's face and eyes. Soapy water, eat it you son-of-a-bitch--

Reese hissed and spat but he didn't let go. Fusco felt the baking heat of the driveway stones beneath him, under his shoulders, his ass and legs. Reese's head was blocking out the light of the sun. It made this funky halo around him, all spinning and swimmy. Or maybe that was the nut-shot making him dizzy. Or the fact that he was being choked. Whatever.

He brought his other hand up, in a fist, right against Reese's ear. A second time, as hard as he could, and the hands on his throat and the weight on his chest went away. Fusco rolled onto his side, sucking down air.  
  
"Listen-- up-- you motherfucker," he coughed. "I got enough-- shit in my life-- without--"

He didn't see it coming, but his vision wasn't too clear right now anyway: Reese's fist plowed into his mouth. He tasted blood.  _Okay, then_.

He caught Reese's next punch with a block thrown up out of pure reflex. He chased it with a fist of his own, and he felt it connect with Reese's gut, but fighting on the ground like this he had no power, he couldn't get his hips into it. This wasn't boxing, it was wrestling, and that wasn't his ballgame. Fusco pulled his arms up over his head protectively, and rolled away on the hot stones before Reese could lock him down; he felt Reese's fingers raking along his ribs, digging in through his shirt, but he got loose and then the stone gave way to grass beneath him as he rolled onto the lawn. 

He breathed. He could see again, kind of: everything was too-bright and too-white still, and yeah, he still wanted to curl into a fetal ball over his poor dick, but fuck it, that shit could wait. He dragged himself up to a crouch in the grass, wheezing.

Reese was having a harder time getting up, with his bum leg. Fusco saw him going for the crutch, hand groping out over the stones.  _Fuck_ no; he remembered what Reese had done to him with that crutch before. He dove for it. 

The paving stones cracked hard into his knees, but he barely noticed. He got a hand on the metal of the crutch at the same time Reese did, and for a few seconds they wrestled for it, tugging it back and forth. They were each panting, trying to get their breath back. Fusco wrapped the fingers of his other hand over the edge of the driveway, where it became the lawn, and he used that to  _yank._ Reese decided to let go at the same second, and Fusco went backwards, toppling down into the grass again. So what, he had the fucking crutch.

" _Suck_ on it, you _asshole,_ " he rasped in triumph, waving the crutch in the air. 

Reese threw the bucket at him in answer. Reese had good aim: he ducked, but it still clipped him on the ear. "Ow! Shit!"

Reese grinned at him like a rabid dog and grabbed the Maserati's driver-side mirror to haul himself to his feet. Fusco scrambled up as well, gripping the crutch with both hands at the skinny end, like a big baseball bat. "Come on," he panted. His heartbeat was punching along his veins like a subway train through a tunnel. "Come on, you pussy--"

Reese waited, leaned against the car, his eyes bright and dangerous, tracking each twitch he made. Fusco lunged in and swung with the crutch, but Reese just took the hit, then wrapped his arm around the crutch and yanked it out of his grasp with one explosive wrench of motion. Any normal guy couldn't have pulled that off with just one leg to balance on, but Reese used the car to keep himself upright, and then he whipped the crutch around and slammed the pokey end right into Fusco's gut, mo-ther- _fuck._

He had the breath knocked out of him all over again. He staggered, bent over, and Reese cracked him on the side of the head with the business end of five feet of aluminum, sending a lot more sparks to join his already-crowded field of vision.

This wouldn't work. Reese had a greater reach than him anyway, just naturally; with the crutch Reese was really gonna fuck him up. He lurched forward before Reese could bring it around again, until he crashed into Reese in a pure, graceless bodyslam. Reese made a choking noise as he was smashed back against the Maserati. It was beautiful.

Reese dropped the crutch (he heard it clatter on the stones, real distantly) and started in with body shots to his ribs. He was ready for them, though: he'd burnt out all his oxygen when he'd slammed into Reese, so yeah, they hurt, but they didn't take the wind out of him, because he had no wind left to take.

Reese had reach: but he was a surprisingly gangly fucker, really-- Fusco thought when it came to raw, straight-up upper body strength, he might have the edge. So this close, Reese's reach didn't matter: he just had to lock down Reese's arms. The nice thing was that with one good leg, Reese couldn't knee him, not without completely losing his balance, so...

He used his bulk to keep Reese's body pinned against the car, just keeping that shoulder driven in to Reese's heaving chest and ignoring the rib shots as best as he could. He sucked in air between punches. His head was jammed under Reese's chin, forcing the other guy's head back, and his cheek was mashed to Reese's chest. He waited, counting out the punches, four, five, six-- waiting for one punch, a little slower than the rest-- and then he _grabbed_ , trapping that arm, okay, one down, one to go--

But Reese wasn't gonna fall for the same thing twice, that was clear. This wasn't some drunken bar fight. Reese brought his free hand up and wrapped it over his face, fingers digging in for eye sockets and ear and nose and _god_ _dammit_ _,_ that _hurt_ _._  
  
He felt Reese's nails leaving hot, stinging lines, but he could have dealt with that: not so much when Reese's finger found the corner of his eye and started digging in. He let go, he staggered back, and Reese (he was quickly learning) did not give quarter or breather. Reese just threw a follow-up jab at his face, so goddamn quick-- Fusco weaved back on instinct, so that it only clipped his jaw instead of shattering his cheekbone. 

Okay. Asshole wanted to fight dirty, with groin shots and eye shots? Fusco could do that. Marquess of Queensberry didn't fuckin' fly in prison, and it didn't fly here either.

He kicked Reese. In his shin. In his shin that had the cast on it.

Reese made a noise. It was a weird, wobbly noise, like Jell-O made audible. He went sort of gray in the face, and he slid down half a foot against the car before catching himself.

Fusco had a fist ready to follow up, but he hesitated. Fuck, he could really jack up Reese's leg like that, re-break it maybe-- God, that had to hurt like hell _\--_

Reese's eyes flicked up to his, a split-second of contact before Reese's hand shot out, like a viper, and closed on his balls in a grip of iron through his khaki trousers. Reese _yanked,_ and Fusco went down, fast, he had to, his knees dropped him right the hell down before his brain even had a chance to weigh the pros and cons of having your balls ripped off you.

"Don't _start_ something you're not going to _finish,"_ Reese snarled in his ear. Reese's breath felt like it was scalding his goddamned cheek, and there was nothing the fuck he could _do,_ not unless he wanted to be a sudden castrato--

" _What the HELL is going ON?"_

Finch. That was Mr. Finch's voice...

He saw Reese's eyes shiver shut, felt Reese's breath whistle against his skin. Reese let go, and Fusco stumbled back from him.

Finch stormed up the best a guy like him could storm, the dog running in hyper circles around him. Finch was white as a sheet and looked kinda like he might puke. Fusco thought he probably looked similar himself.

He sagged down onto the flagstones, one hand sidling into a protective curl over his jewels. Reese sat down too, leaning back against the car, carefully easing his broken leg out straight before him, and closed his eyes.

Finch came to a stop. In a cartoon, like the ones Lee watched, it would have been a skid, complete with a sound effect. But this was not-- oh fuck, ohhh fuck his ribs hurt-- yeah, it was definitely not a cartoon. Bear ran over to Reese and nosed at his shoulder. Mr. Finch stared down at them both, appalled horror scrawled all over his face. "I _said,_ what the hell is going _on_ here?" and he didn't quite yell it, but Fusco flinched all the same.

He waited for Reese to say it: _he attacked me._ Christ, it was even true. Reese said nothing, though, and he looked over to Reese, but Reese had his eyes shut, his hands loose in his lap. He almost looked asleep.

The weight of Finch's demanding gaze was worse than the heat of the goddamn sun. Fusco touched at his mouth and his fingers came away red. "I, uh, we--" Shit. What was he _supposed_ to say?

Finch gritted his teeth. For a prissy and fussy little fag, he was somehow pretty goddamned scary right this second, Fusco thought. "You _what?_ You had a little _scuffle?_ There was a _misunderstanding?_ Please. _Enlighten me."_

Reese spoke, his voice soft and hoarse. "Yes. Yes, Harold, we had a little scuffle."

Mr. Finch wheeled on his boyfriend. " _John,_ do not even _start with me--"_ He cut himself off, and Fusco watched as Finch dragged a hand over his face and sucked down a deep breath.

"You're _bleeding,"_ he said, soft now, aimed at Reese. Mr. Finch's shoulders drooped down to nothing, the anger leakiing out of him like air from a punctured tire. "You're _both_ bleeding, for God's sake." Finch very stiffly walked to the dropped crutch and creakily bent down to pick it up. Fusco studied the toes of his shoes.  
  
"Can you walk, John?" Mr. Finch asked, and Reese got to his feet, slowly and painstakingly, using the car to lever himself up until he could take the crutch. Fusco glanced over to his owncar, about thirty feet away: so, probably, the best thing to do would be to crawl to his car, get in, and drive the fuck off, yeah? Yeah, sure. God _damn._

"And you, Lionel?" said Finch, and he blinked.

"What?"

"Can you _walk,"_ Finch ground out, like he was talking to a little kid, and Fusco stared up dumbly before he shrugged and said, "Uh. I can try."

Mr. Finch... offered him a hand up, which, that was another thing that would be pretty funny if not for the situation. He took it gingerly, and did his damndest not to actually _use_ it at all as he got up, trying not to risk tugging Finch off his probably-precarious balance.

So then there they were, the three of them, and God, his groin hurt, and his split lip was welling blood into his mouth. His ears were ringing. The air seemed hot and heavy, and it burned going into his lungs.  
  
"Let's get inside," Finch sighed.

They were slow, getting there. He waddled like a duck, his legs apart, trying to ease any pressure on his nuts. Reese was slow, crutch, crutch, crutch, leaning on Finch-- and that was how they got there, one painful step at a time.

The cold air inside burned his lungs too. Finch ordered them into the kitchen chairs by pointing, and Fusco was hurting too much to question things. He staggered that way, using the counters for support, and dropped into the chair with a groan.

"Stay _here,"_ Finch ordered them, and Fusco saw Bear plop his ass down between their two chairs very obediently, and that was suddenly really, really _hilarious,_ but laughing was a super-bad idea-- he wrapped his hands around his ribs and tried not to breathe. Reese looked over at him.

"Talks to us like we're dogs," he got out through his clenched teeth, by way of strangled explanation. Reese just looked forward again.

Finch came back with the first aid kit, which Lionel remembered from two weeks ago. Christ, it seemed like longer. Finch started on his boyfriend, and Lionel sat there wishing he had an ice pack for his nuts, mostly, and thinking about how many steps it was to the fridge, and how he didn't exactly dare ask Finch for one after he'd gone and thrown down with his boyfriend.

"I thought you two were getting along," Finch sighed as he looked Reese over, and wow, it was goddamn amazing how one human could cram so much long-suffering, guilt-tripping _disappointment_ into seven words. Fusco rubbed really carefully at the side of his face, where Reese had hit him with the crutch, and tried to judge by feel if anything was broken. He still didn't know what to say to Finch, to excuse or to explain himself, so he didn't say anything.

It felt like middle school, he thought. Like when you got in a fight at recess, and you both got dragged to the principal's office but neither of you wanted to be the fuckin' cry-baby so you sat it out, nobody saying a goddamn thing, and you both got detention.

What had he told Elias, told Stills? _I'm not a snitch._ Yeah. Great. Points for that, it was working out so well in his life.

He closed his eyes, wearily. He didn't want to be here. In their house, around them. Why put off the inevitable, or wait around for the _You are very fired, Mr. Fusco_? Why not just get the hell out of here now? Wasn't like Finch could make him stay.

Because it hurt to walk, he guessed. He didn't feel like getting up and going out to his car, he just wanted to stay sitting down (lying down would be even better) somewhere quiet and soft and filled with ice packs.

"Chin up, Lionel," said Mr. Finch, and he started, jerking in the chair.

"What?"

"Lift your _chin,_ please-- are you hearing alright?"

He squinted up at Finch with a grimace. Mr. Finch stared back, his glasses reflecting the light, and Fusco shifted uncomfortably in the chair and raised his chin a bit. Finch's cold, manicured hand settled under his jaw and the guy started-- aw, for Chrissake-- the guy started wiping at his split lip.

"I can do that myself," he said, and snatched the Kleenex from Finch, because if he was fired, then he didn't goddamn well need to keep playing so fucking nice. Finch frowned and sighed but stood there, watching him.

" _What?_ " Fusco ground out, as he dabbed at his mouth.

"Your ear is bleeding as well," Mr. Finch said, "and you are developing quite the shiner. I'll get you an ice pack."

"…thanks," Fusco muttered grudgingly. "...could you make it two?"

Finch brought him two. Fusco plastered one on the left side of his face, settling it over his eye as well, and then-- Finch was still standing right there, looking at him with concern or some fuckin' thing, he guessed. Fusco waited a few seconds, since it seemed kinda crude to just slap the ice right on his balls with Finch watching, but.... Finch didn't move, and he remembered he didn't give a shit anyway, not anymore. He gingerly nestled the bag of ice down between his thighs.

Finch's brows arched, and he cleared his throat and turned away. Yeah. Served him right if he was offended, the prissy bastard.

Mr. Finch rummaged in the first aid kit with a frown. "Well, apparently I need to restock the painkillers... I don't suppose either of you want to tell me what exactly happened?"

Fusco looked at Reese. Reese said nothing, just shrugged. Finch exhaled, long and deliberate. "Fine. I'll be right back. _Try_ not to kill each other while I'm gone? _Blife_ , Bear."

He waited until he couldn't hear Finch limping down the hall anymore, and then he said out of the corner of his mouth, without looking at Reese: "Well, I hope you're fuckin' happy now." There was a tired bitterness to his voice that he hated as soon as he heard it aloud: it sounded like weakness, like defeat, and he didn't want to give Reese that satisfaction.

Reese leaned back in his own chair, slow and careful. Thoughtfully, Reese said, "My spine's not happy."

" _Fuck_ your spine."

Reese grunted. Fusco leaned his head back and adjusted the ice packs. Fuck it. He really, really should get up and leave, now, before Finch came back and he had to deal with feeling like an asshole and failure once more. C'mon. C'mon, just get up and go...

(But painkillers, though. That sounded _great._ )

A few minutes, and Finch came back; you could hear his uneven gait moving down the hall. But when he rounded the doorway he looked pissed off all over again: his mouth a small tight line, his brows drawn together as he glared at them both. Aw, _now_ the fuck what?

"We are going," Mr. Finch said, crisp and sharp as new dollar bills, "to the clinic. Come on, both of you. I will drive."

Reese said, " _Harold,"_ and Fusco said, "What?" at the same time. Finch ignored them, busy shutting up the first aid kit with short, jerky motions.

Fusco raised his free hand and rubbed at the un-fucked side of his face with a groan. Seriously? Where the fuck did this guy get off? He had no reason to do what Finch said anymore. The guy could go fuck himself (or his asshole boyfriend, whatever). "Look. For fuck's sake," he said (and jeez, it was really satisfying to let himself swear, anyway, that was one nice bright spot in the clusterfuck that was today), "I'm not going to a goddamn clinic. Just, can't you give me some aspirin or something and let me get out of here?"  
  
Mr. Finch turned a look on him that turned his mouth dry and reminded him the guy had great reason to be pissed at him. "...or no aspirin," Fusco said. "That was optional. I'll just be leaving. Thanks for the ice."

"Mr. Fusco, you are _going_ to the _clinic."_

"Oh, the hell I am."

"Really?" said Finch, head tilting to one side so the light flashed off his glasses. "Would you prefer I pressed charges for assault? We can certainly do that instead, if you like."

...how had he ever thought this was guy was some panty-waisted pushover, he wondered. Fusco sat there, mouth slack, because no, Finch didn't need to spell it out for him: how things were likely to go if this went to court. Yeah. Yeah. The convicted fucking _felon's_ word against that of two goddamn upstanding citizens. And what would the courts do, to a guy who was out of prison barely two fucking _weeks_ before getting strung up on assault and battery charges?

"Your honor, the other guy's an asshole, and he's pretty tough even with a broken leg" wasn't exactly a valid defense.

But God, what the hell did Finch want him to go to the goddamn clinic for? Was this a set-up? Would they get there and the docs would check him out, and then he'd step back out into waiting police custody-- with a nice doctor's tally of Reese's injuries as evidence? Was that it? Shit. Shit, why the _fuck_ had he started things with Reese...?

Fusco swallowed. He noticed, distantly, that Reese was already on his feet, over by the door and looking back to see how this played out. Fusco looked up at Finch, and tried his damndest to rewind-- to recapture that pathetic earnestness he'd used back at the job interview, whatever it was that had made Mr. Finch decide to cut him a break the first time. C'mon, grovel if he had to... Getting the police involved was _not_ an option, no, not this close to seeing Lee again.

"Look," he said, soft and hoarse, "look, I-- I hate admitting this, but I don't really have the ready cash for doctor bills right now, okay? I'm just a little banged up, it's fine."

Finch pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I'm fairly sure this falls under the financial umbrella of a work-related injury," he said shortly. "Now, if you _please_ , let's go before it gets any later."

And it wasn't like the guy was leaving him much of a fucking choice, was it? Wordlessly, he got up and followed Reese and Finch, out the door, down the footpath, to the garage.

The half-washed Maserati shone in the sunlight like a goddamned accusation.


	24. Chapter 24

They drove: past the Maserati, down the long driveway, out the iron gate, out into the pretty, too-clean streets of Oyster Bay. The air conditioner blasted an arctic chill through the car. Fusco sat in the Lincoln's backseat, using one of the ice packs as a cold, crunchy pillow between his face and the window. He closed his eyes, and he tried not to think.

Reese didn't talk, in the front seat, other to answer questions from Finch, and Finch didn't talk other than to ask Reese questions: _Is your vision alright? Are you dizzy?_

It hurt to breathe. Fusco imagined his ribs were polka-dotted with bruises, after the punches Reese had been driving into them. He avoided his reflection in the window, because his face was probably jacked up too, and _fantastic_ , Lee was gonna see his old man, for the first time in two years, looking like a hooker who'd pissed off her pimp. Great.

He felt nauseous, too. He didn't know whether that was due to the shot to his balls, the blows to his head, or just the queasiness of not knowing where he went from here. Back to the job search, he supposed. There was nothing he felt like doing less, right this second.

When they finally stopped, he was surprised to see it hadn't even been fifteen minutes by the dashboard clock. Felt like longer. Felt like forever. The thought of moving had become less and less attractive the longer he'd sat; he had to bully himself out of the car and onto his feet, clutching his ice packs.

He supposed he looked a fuckin' sight, limping through the parking lot with ice held to his face and nuts. Hell, he supposed they all looked a sight-- Finch, with his limp, but maybe the best off of the three of them right now-- Reese, glacially slow with his crutch, moving like an old lady-- and him. The Three Gimp Stooges, or something. At least Finch had parked near the door.

Inside, Finch pointed them towards the chairs the way he had in the kitchen; Fusco was too happy to sit back down to resent it. He put himself a chair away from Reese; he would have gone for two, but the chairs were in blocks of three, separated by potted plants and baskets of magazines. He looked with one eye at the plant while Mr. Finch did stuff at the receptionist's desk. Looked fake. He touched the leaves: it was.

They hadn't been there five minutes before a nurse to come help Reese into the back. _Well_ , Fusco thought dully, _that's the 'urgent' in urgent care for you_. Mr. Finch watched his boyfriend go into the back with his fussy little face all tight and pinched, and Fusco had to look away.

Then Mr. Finch came over to him with a clipboard in hand and stood there a second, in front of his chair; Fusco braced for anger, for castigation,but what Finch said was: "They need your medical history, Mr. Fusco. Do you want me to write for you?"

He groaned, audibly enough that Finch arched both brows at him. "Reese didn't have to do one of those," he protested.

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Finch's worn face got a little more so, and Finch said, "That's because they've treated John before. Now. Smoker, or non, Mr. Fusco?"

It was Mr. Fusco now, he noted. Definitely not 'Lionel' any longer. That was the thing about 'nice' bosses: they were your friends, right up until they weren't.

Finch prodded him through the questions, and got his answers, and Fusco just tried to find a way to sit comfortably, which wasn't easy. His ice packs were melting,and water was trickling down his forearm. He was aware of things like the itch of dried blood on his ear, and how he had dirt and grass all over him, and grass stains ground in to his clothing, and how each breath felt like a painful cord of fire wrapped around his ribs.

They got about ten questions in and the door opened. A blonde lady in pastel scrubs said, "Lionel Fusco?"

Mr. Finch said, "We haven't quite completed the history," and the nurse said, "That's all right, I can fill out the rest of it with him. Lionel, do you need any help getting back here?"

"No," he said, quickly, before they could do some bullshit like bring him a fuckin' wheelchair or something. Reese had walked in pretty much under his power; damned if he wasn't going to do the same. He made himself stand up, never mind the cracking in his knees, before Finch could try and give him a hand up again, and he grabbed the clipboard from Finch while he was at it.

Last goddamn thing he needed was Finch offering to come back there with him.

***

The nurse's name was Joana; she was way too cheerful for a Friday in Fusco's opinion, way too cheerful for any day of the week. And young. All the women in Oyster Bay were either too goddamn young, he thought (too young being defined as 'young enough to make him feel old'), or they were the 50-something, plastic-surgeried, manicured-to-fuck wives of the 60-something rich guys.

Anyway, Joana got him into an office, and had him take off his shirts, and she made a little concerned noise that indicated it probably looked about as good as he expected.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he reassured her, and she answered by poking him in the ribs.

When he stopped cursing, she was writing something down on her clipboard. Fusco groaned.

"Aw... don't tell me they're broken."

"Well... we'd need an X-ray to verify that for sure, but I'd be surprised if they're not at least fractured," she said, and Fusco closed his eyes again, a mute plea to the universe to stop _fucking_ with him, just for a little while.

***

The best thing that could be said about the ride back to the house was that the Percocet started to kick in. Fusco only realized they'd come to a stop when he heard the dog barking. He unbuckled his seatbelt, feeling like he was moving through molasses, and sort of slid out of the car.

Finch was helping Reese out, but threw him half-of-a-glance, like the leftovers you'd throw a dog. (Unless the dog was Bear, and ate top-shelf steak--) "Do you need any help getting inside?"

He actually thought about it. He was holding onto the car door right now; were his legs gonna carry him? He squinted, measuring the distance to the house door, and then he remembered the situation was what it was. He wasn't goddamn well gonna ask the _gimp_ to leave off with his _crippled boyfriend_ to come help _him._

"I got it. 'm fine. Go on."

"Alright," said Mr. Finch, and went on. Fusco staggered after.

They bottlenecked inside the space of the utility room, because Finch was trying to walk right next to Reese and help him in, and doorways were only so wide, and the crutch was in the way, and here he was, stuck behind the both of them.

"John, you need to turn the crutch sideways, no-- John just give it to me--"

"Harold, let _go--"_

The noise of their arguing washed over him like the static between radio stations. Fusco stood there with numb patience, just waiting for them to move out of the doorway because the only goal he felt he had a really good grasp on right now was just 'go inside the house.' Very short-term. Very short-term, and that was a problem, wasn't it? Because he had all this shit he had to think about right now, like how he was going to get a job, any job, with a few cracked ribs and his face looking like this, and what was he going to tell Janet, and what was he going to tell _Lee,_ and these were all things he should be trying to manage, trying to figure out answers for, and instead he was just spinning his wheels on a real tiny goal of 'wait for Bert and Ernie to move.'

He thought, through the nice fuzziness of the drugs, that maybe that had been his problem his whole life. A follower, not a leader: no head for the big picture, no guts for it either-- too happy to turn things over to somebody, anybody, who seemed like they knew what they were doing, and just sit back and wait for them to give him his little, simple, ugly jobs to do. _Go here. Break this guy's face. Lose this bit of evidence. Don't think too hard. Just do what you're told._

Finch and Reese moved; he stepped through the doorway after, like a puppet. Finch gave him another look, a longer one this time.

"You should sit down," Mr. Finch said, and Fusco felt his cracked lips tugging into an involuntary smile, almost a laugh. See? There was one of those nice little orders to follow, and that made things simple.

"Yeah. Probably," he said, and he took a left-turn into the TV room, and beelined for the couch that was usually Reese's. Fusco sat down on it, with both hands in his lap, and stared at the smooth blackness of the big flat-screen TV, at his own imperfect and blurry reflection.

He did not remember falling asleep, but he woke hours later, to a dry mouth and a lot of pain and a pressing need to take a leak. For a few seconds, he was completely disoriented: the room looked foreign, weird, a place he couldn't recall ever being. Then he registered that he was looking at things sideways, because he was lying down on the couch.

Fusco sat up with a groan-- a blanket fell off him, and he stared down at it in confusion for a few seconds. The room's door was shut. Had he done that? The house was silent except for the subliminal hum of the AC. The sunlight coming through the windows seemed wrong, too dim and red.

Fusco took stock of how he felt. Ribs: still hurting like a bitch. Groin: a big spot of misery. Head and face: don't even ask. The other points of pain-- his knees, one elbow, the palms of his hands-- were minor footnotes. The pills had pretty much worn off. He squinted down at his watch: Jesus, it was seven o'clock. No wonder the light was funny: he'd slept for four hours.

...in the house of his now-ex-employers. One of whom he'd gotten into a fight with. Right.

Fusco picked the blanket up, gingerly, and folded it because he didn't have a better idea what to do with the goddamn thing (Finch, that had to have been Finch-- Finch had come in here and put a fucking blanket over him? Who _did that--)._ Then he got to his feet, hissing, and crept towards the door with some half-formed notion of sneaking to the bathroom, and then to his car, and getting the hell out of here.

No such luck, of course: Finch was at the kitchen counter, where he had a good view of the TV room's door, and as soon as he opened the door Finch looked up from his laptop.

"Ah. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," he said, because he didn't need to watch his language anymore. Finch cleared his throat delicately, then opened his mouth to say something more, but Fusco didn't let him. Instead he said a loud (and weirdly satisfying) "'Scuse me" and ducked off into the bathroom. Mr. Finch, and the likely Talk that was gonna happen, the Talk where he was officially fired, could just fuckin' _wait._

Pissing after getting kicked in the jewels sucked. (Everything sucked.) His balls were swollen and tender-as-hell, but he guessed he was lucky: Reese had mostly missed his dick. Fusco took his time after in trying to wash up, get the grass out of his hair and off his skin.

When he came back out, Finch was still there, waiting: Fusco took ginger steps back into the kitchen, still doing his waddle-walk from earlier, and gave Finch half a nod. "So, uh.... how's Reese?"

"Resting," Finch said, and he guessed that single word from Finch was reproach enough, in its way. Yeah, well, he wasn't gonna stand here and feel _too_ bad, the asshole had cracked three of his ribs. Still, though... he rubbed at the back of his head with a little grimace. He didn't really feel bad he'd thrown down with Reese, because the asshole had goddamn deserved it, but he guessed he felt kinda bad for Finch. The rich geek wanted his picture-perfect lawn and house and bird feeders and goddamn pastel sweaters, and instead he had his psychotic boyfriend sulking around, and a fuck-up ex-con doing his gardening. He and Reese were _both_ bad fits for this place, he thought.

Well, at least he was gonna be gone.

Mr. Finch got up and picked up some papers from the counter, and a white paper bag that rattled. "Your care instructions from the clinic," he said, "and also some Percocet, I believe you could take more now--"

Oh hell yes. His feet were already moving, because his ribs and head said that some more of those pills would be _great._ Finch blinked as he grabbed the bag.  
  
"...if you need to," Finch finished.

Yeah, he was already snagging some water from the kitchen faucet to swallow them down. He squinted at the bottle after swallowing, but the text was too small to read without his glasses, which were... where? In his car? Yeah, probably.

He was suddenly and unhappily conscious of the fact that Mr. Finch must have paid for the pills, like he'd paid for the clinic visit. That didn't sit well with him, but what the fuck could he do about it? Not like he could have afforded it. So, so, great, he'd gotten in a fight with the guy's boyfriend, and Mr. Finch was going to fire him-- but on top of that he owed the guy, from a place of embarrassing need.

Fusco took a deep breath. With his back to Finch, he said, "Look, uh... thanks for-- taking me to the clinic, and all. I, uh... you didn't have to do that."

"No, Mr. Fusco, I did," Finch sighed. "And it's really not up for discussion. What's done is done. Are you ready to leave?"

Yeah, there was the shove-off. Finch probably couldn't wait to see the back of him. Fusco put the pill-bottle back into the bag and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll get out of your hair."

"Alright," said Mr. Finch, and closed his laptop. "I'll need your keys, then."

What? "...What?"

Mr. Finch barely glanced up from grabbing his jacket. "Your car keys, Mr. Fusco. To drive your car?"

Fusco stood there unmoving, wondering if he was really awake. Finch. Driving his car. Why? What?

"...sorry, come again?"

Mr. Finch gave him the full weight of his attention then, his glasses little round reflecting circles in the kitchen's lighting. "...you surely can't think I'm going to let you drive a vehicle after taking a schedule II opioid, Mr. Fusco. Or with fractured ribs, for that matter."

He didn't answer. He just kept standing there, fingers curled into the paper of the pill-bag, thinking about his crap car, and the YMCA, and how goddamn long that drive was going to be. Mr. Finch tilted his head at his silence.

"...or I suppose you could spend the night here," he said. "The guest bedroom would require some preparation. But I don't feel that any of us would really find that ideal."

Fusco got out his keys.


	25. Chapter 25

Fusco stood next to his car, useless, while Finch looked for the automatic unlock, realized there wasn't one, and craned across to unlock the door by hand. "Sorry," Fusco said for that as he opened his side of the car-- sorry for that, sorry for the entire situation, because yeah, this was just _great._ The passenger seat was full of crap he didn't have room to store at the Y: spare clothes, papers from the apartment hunt, a shopping bag full of packaged food.

Finch didn't answer him, busy checking the mirrors and adjusting the seat. Fusco threw things into the back seat, and then he got in and he sat there, clutching the clinic papers and the pill-bag to his chest.

Finch turned the key, and the engine made choking noises.

 _Christ, don't do this, you piece of shit_ , Fusco pleaded silently with his car. Out loud, he said, "Sometimes it acts up."

"Mmm," said Finch _,_ and tried again.

On the third go, the car rumbled into life. Fusco's eyes wandered around the Toyota's interior, cataloging every crappy thing wrong with his crappy car: a crack low on the windshield. A thin fuzz of dust on the dashboard and the console. Dusty exterior. The worn vinyl of the driver's seat had a split seam, exposing crumbling, mustard-yellow foam padding beneath. The clock's display was dead. The service engine light was on.

...they were all cosmetic things, pretty much. The car _ran:_ it was a workhorse, even with the oil leak, even with the fiddly ignition, and he was pretty sure the service engine light was just him needing to replace the air filter, but he hadn't really had the time or the money. The car did its damn _job_ , and if he'd had a spare hundred dollars to throw at the niggling little wear-and-tear repairs, about half of them could be taken care of, no problem. 

He didn't need to feel so goddamn  _ashamed_ of his car. It wasn't that bad. 

Except that it was, here. With the Maserati and the Lincoln and the Bentley sitting in the garage, spotless and smooth. With the stupidly-big house behind them. With Finch's well-dressed, fussy self in the driver's seat.

"Please fasten your seatbelt, Mr. Fusco," Finch said, and he fumbled for the strap.

They were all the way down to the gate when his brain finally caught up with the motion of the car. "Hang on," he said, and Finch glanced his way as the gate whirred open.

"Hang on," he repeated, bracing one hand against the dash. "How the hell are you gonna get home? It's thirty  _miles--_ you know what a taxi's gonna run you?" 

Finch shrugged. "I was planning to drive one of our company cars home."

...right. Of course. Of course he could just go pick up a company car. Sure. Why not. Fusco decided he'd keep his mouth shut and let the world's most expensive chauffeur run things.

  
The sunlight was long and low over the trim green lawns and the movie-set houses. Fusco settled his head against the cool glass of his window. Just get back to the city, he thought. Back to the world as he understood it. Everything else could fucking wait, preferably until he'd had like another twenty hours of sleep...

Finch cleared his throat. "Do you just take Northern Boulevard back into the city, or do you go down to the 495?"

He'd been closing his eyes despite himself; he opened them again, sat up. "Northern usually. All the way into Little Neck, then I swing down to Grand Central..."

It occurred to him, as he spoke, that Finch didn't know where he lived. And that Finch didn't have to know. He could pick any goddamn address he wanted; save that last stupid corner of his pride.

It didn't matter, he reminded himself. It didn't matter a bit, what Finch thought, what Finch knew. Still... Fusco rubbed at the side of his face that hadn't made best friends with a crutch. He said, "I'll give you directions when we get closer."

"Certainly."

They drove in silence after that, and Fusco was okay with that. If it had been yesterday, if Mr. Finch had still been trying to be _buddies_ \-- he guessed Finch would probably have made small talk all the way back to the city. He seemed like that kind of guy. He'd talk about the weather, or ask about Fusco's family, or _some_ thing, chatty Kathy all the way back to New York City. (Birds. He'd talk about birds, wouldn't he, fuckin' nerd that he was.)

But Finch wasn't feeling chatty, now; Finch was distant and cool, _Mr. Fusco,_ and that was fine.

He watched Oyster Bay sliding past his window, the cutesy streets and the cutesy shops and the expensive cars. Adios, motherfuckers. He should have never left the city in the first place, he thought. Lionel closed his eyes.

***

Someone was grabbing him, shaking him-- he jerked awake, where was he, who-- moving, they were moving? A car? He heard a car horn, anyway. Maybe brakes screeching. His head hurt like hell, had HR ambushed him, stuffed him in a car and--

" _Lionel,"_ said a sharp, tight voice, and everything filtered back in. He was in a car, yeah: his car. And Mr. Finch was driving him back to the city after the trainwreck of the day.

"Shit," he mumbled. "Shit, sorry, must've fallen asleep."

"Yes," said Finch, his voice strained. "Please let go of my arm."

Fusco looked down to realize he had both his hands locked around Finch's right wrist, bending it backwards. He let go like he'd been burned.

"Oh Christ-- sorry, I don't know how I--"

Mr. Finch sagged back a little on the driver side of the car, gingerly rotating his wrist. "You were asleep. I reached over to wake you. In retrospect, unwise."

Fusco grunted something meaninglessness in answer, forcing himself upright in the seat and trying to get his bearings. They were... back among real buildings, city, traffic. They were in the right-most lane of Grand Central, crawling along-- cars were swerving around him and jamming on their horns-- and the sun was setting ahead of them. His mouth felt like sawdust and his head hurt.

"I would rather not have woken you," said Finch, "but I needed directions..."

"Uh. Right." He dragged his hand over his face with a sub-vocal groan. "When we hit the 678 junction, stay in your left lane and get onto Jackie Robinson. Take it through the park, all the way to Jamaica. I'll tell you from there." Fusco dropped his head back against the headrest. God, he needed a drink. Not even booze-- water would have worked, just to get that dry foulness out of his mouth, but he didn't have any water in the car.

"Sorry I grabbed your arm," he muttered.

"Oh, I should be used to it by now," Finch said with a tired sigh. He sped up, getting back with the flow of traffic and switching lanes, and Fusco supposed they were just lucky Finch hadn't crashed the fucking car or something when he'd grabbed at his arm. Yeah, small mercies, or whatever. He tried to stretch his legs out on the passenger side, and to pop his aching back while he was it; there wasn't really room for it.

"Are you in pain right now?" Finch asked.

"Do bears shit in the woods?"

He caught Mr. Finch's frown in his peripheral vision. "You should be careful with the Percocet. I recognize you'll likely want to take some more when you get home, but follow the dosage instructions."

"Yeah, okay."

"I'm _serious,_ Mr. Fusco."

"Look, I heard you, okay? What do you want me to say?"

Mr. Finch made a small, frustrated noise and took a hand off the wheel to rub at his temples. Fusco sighed in turn.

"...I'm sorry, alright? I know you're going out of your way here. I'm just... I'm tired as fuck, my ribs hurt, my head hurts, and I just wanna lay down for a while."

"Lie."

"What?"

"Never mind. See that you do just that, though. Broken ribs and head injuries aren't trifles."

Lionel sighed and looked back out his window. "Yeah, your boyfriend didn't screw around."

He caught Finch's little wince in the reflection. Finch cleared his throat. "Yes. I'm... I apologize. John's very-- I _did_ tell you he was ex-Army."

Mr. Finch sounded torn, Fusco thought: halfway between guilty apology and vague reproach. He didn't need the reproach, thanks: he'd known it was stupid, to start something with Reese, and he'd done it anyway. Come to to think of it, he didn't need Finch's guilt either. Fusco pressed his head back into the headrest and stared dead ahead into the last light of the sun.

He pointed out, sullenly, "Not for nothing, but I did kinda throw the first... shove."

Mr. Finch exhaled. "I'm aware of that. I'm also aware what John can be like when he's decided to be-- difficult. I don't consider the incident to be entirely your fault, Mr. Fusco. I'm sure John provoked you."

Fusco snorted at Finch's Fair-and-Balanced commentary. "Well, that's big of you. 'Course, I'm still the one who's out of a job."

"Mr. _Fusco--"_ Finch said, snapped really, and from the corner of his eye he saw Finch take a big breath. Finch wrapped both his hands tight around the grimy steering wheel, and stared at the road ahead with his jaw tight and set.

"Mr. Fusco, no offense meant, but if you are asking me to take sides between _you_ and the man I deeply love, the man whose safety and well-being I value above nearly anything else in the world, also a man with prior head trauma-- then _yes_ , I am going to pick him. Is that completely fair to you? I suppose not. But you cracked John's head against a car today, and you kicked his broken _leg_ , so you'll have to forgive me if if I'm not terribly interested in _fairness_ at the moment."

Fusco sank down a few inches in the seat and didn't say anything, because, okay, he figured he'd kinda deserved that.

Mr. Finch was silent too, a little red in the face and ears. Fusco figured that maybe even if you were a flaming fag like Finch it was still pretty embarrassing to go off like that, like you were on goddamn Oprah or something. 'The man I dearly love,' Christ. (And if Finch _weren't_ embarrassed over it, then he'd be embarrassed for him.) So Fusco did them both a favor and kept his mouth shut for the next three minutes, until he said, "Uh, take a right up here."

Finch turned where told, and Fusco had him stop in front of a row of tight-packed houses. They were older houses, a little shabby, but still several steps removed from the ghetto: they were places he could pretend to live that were not the YMCA.

"Just pull up right behind that SUV-- that'll be good."

Mr. Finch threw a glance at him and looked, Fusco thought, like he was about to say something maybe-- but he just parked. Fusco hurried to get out of the car before Finch could start lecturing him again. Finch got out too, slower and stiffer, looking around the street like it was a third-world country or something. There was something darkly funny about it for a moment: if Finch was passing judgment on this street-- blue-collar working families, nobody rich but nothing to be ashamed of either-- then yeah, he really didn't want to know what Finch would have thought of the YMCA.

He held out his hand for the keys, and Finch hesitated.  
  
"...look, I won't be driving anywhere tonight," he said, and Finch sighed, and handed them over.

"Right. Well. --oh, I need to write you a check for today."

His pride wanted to tell Finch not to bother, that after the clinic and the ride home and stuff they were probably even, but his bank account told his pride to shut up, so...

Finch used the roof of the car as a writing surface, squinting against the last of the daylight. The streetlights were coming on in half-hearted flickers. As he handed the check over, Finch said, "And you'll _rest_ for the next few days, and go to a clinic if you experience any of the symptoms in the care guide?"

"Sure," Fusco lied.

Finch said, "Very well, then. I suppose you'd better get inside and get to that resting."

Lionel had his answer ready. "This ain't the greatest neighborhood-- I'll wait with you til your car gets here. Or were you gonna call a taxi?"

Mr. Finch pursed his lips and gave him another one of those long looks. Fusco gave it right back.

"That won't be necessary."

"Says you. That watch you're wearing, that's gold, right?"  
  
Finch frowned at him. "Yes."

"Yeahhh. I'm staying out here til your car gets here."

Mr. Finch tilted his head to one side, studying him, and smiled a small, bittersweet smile. "What," he said drily, "do you think I'm incapable of defending myself?"

Fusco slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged both shoulders. "I think a stiff breeze could beat you up, buddy."

Finch snorted/sighed, and started fishing out his phone. "Well, it's kind of you."

"Hey, least I can do, huh?" he said, and tried not to feel like a piece of lying crap, because no, Finch wasn't gonna get fuckin' _mugged_ here, this was a street with families and kids and shit (okay, granted, it was two miles from the heart of Bedford-Stuy...). But a guy like Mr. Finch, a rich guy-- he wouldn't see things like the kids' bikes inside the tiny fenced "front yards," or the Puerto Rican flags sharing space with potted herbs in the windows, or the hundred other little signs of domesticity that told Fusco this was a place where families came and they _stayed_ , they put down roots, they made lives here.

...Christ, but he missed being a cop.

Anyway. The point was, Finch wouldn't know the difference between a street like this and the sort of street where he _would_ get mugged, so, Fusco could sell it, and hell, get brownie points out of it too for sounding all _concerned_ , even though it was nothing but an excuse for why he was staying outside.

If only brownie points still mattered.

Finch texted somebody, his face and glasses lit by the glow of his screen, then glanced back up at him. "...about what I said in the car..."

That sounded like the lead-in to another guilty apology. Fusco cut him off. "Don't worry about it."

Finch frowned in his smartphone's glow. "No, but you have a point, it's not exactly... there's a certain disparity of consequences in play--"

Fusco leaned his head back to look up at the sick glow of the streetlights, to watch the wobbly path of a moth through the warm night air. "Look, if my son came home from school beat-the-fuck-up, I wouldn't really give a shit who had started it. I mean, I'd probably give the Dad Lecture I'm supposed to give, but deep down I'd just want to kick the punk ass of whatever kid hurt him. So. I get it, okay? Right or wrong, fair or bullshit, that doesn't matter when it's someone you-- someone important."

Finch opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, and then he shut it, and then he opened it again after a few seconds to say, "…I suppose that's accurate. But-- what I wanted to say was--

"I just want you to know that overall your work was quite satisfactory. If not for the-- the interpersonal problem--" (Fusco had a brief mental image of Reese with a name-tag that read 'The Interpersonal Problem') "--I would have been happy to make things official and, and move on to the next level. I was looking forward to it, really; I had planned to... well, I suppose it doesn't matter." Mr. Finch sighed. "Anyway, if you need a reference in the future, whether for regular work or for this sort of-- arrangement, I'm willing to provide one."

Jesus, was this a job termination or a fuckin' break-up? Fusco discreetly rolled his eyes. _Just stop talking, buddy._ He made himself say, "Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Alright, then," said Finch, and quieted.

They stood there on the sidewalk, not talking. Lights were on in most of the homes already. Fusco could smell barbecue from somewhere, somebody taking advantage of a summer night to grill outside, and goddamn that smelled good. He hadn't eaten anything since before his fight with Reese, he realized. He had some food in the car, non-perishable crap like granola bars, but it was gonna look pretty weird if he sat here munching on one just outside his supposed 'house.'

Fusco supposed he was some sort of idiot, really. Because, again: it didn't matter if Finch knew. It was _over,_ this was the point in the game where you just tried to get to your car before everyone else in the stadium did the same... But here he was, fucking standing outside some stranger's house, with an aching head, cracked ribs, hungry as hell, and still trying to pretend he was better than he was.

What a fucked-up head he had.

Finch was tap-tap-tapping away on his phone again, which was fine, because that was better than Finch feeling like he had to make small talk and fill up the yawning silence that curled around them, even while the rest of the street was alive with traffic, doors opening and closing, the sounds of TVs coming through open windows. Fusco watched the paths of the moths around the streetlights, because it was likewise better than thinking about how he was back to square zero again. No, maybe worse than that, maybe in the negatives, because the way he felt right this second he didn't think he was going to be able to hop back on that job-hunting wagon in the morning. It was time lost, and it was time he couldn't afford. Which the universe gave no shits about.

A car pulled up in the street, a sleek black Lexus. "Ah," said Finch, "there's my ride."

The driver got out, a black woman in a suit, all business. Slick look for an errand runner or a secretary or whatever, he thought absently. She stood there in the vee of the opened door, her hands on the car's roof, looking their way.

Mr. Finch said, "That was quick, Joss, thank you."

"I wasn't too far," she said, and she was looking at him in a way that made him want to say, _Lady, you got a problem?_ before he remembered he looked like shit, all black-and-blue and freshly bandaged, and yeah, if he'd been in her shoes he'd be giving himself the stink-eye too. At the very least, wondering what the fuck the company accountant was doing with someone like him, in a neighborhood like this.

Maybe she thought Mr. Finch was buying drugs or something.

(But Wall Street junkies didn't go places like Cypress Hills for their pills; they did their deals in nice offices, classy bars with low lighting, upscale hotels.)

"Well," said Finch, and turned towards him. Mr. Finch looked like he was groping for something more to say, but in the end just stuck out a hand for him to shake. "I suppose this is goodbye, Mr. Fusco."

Poor bastard couldn't help himself, Fusco supposed. He took the hand, and shook it. "Yeah. And... for the record, I'm sorry."

"So am I," said Finch, and gave him a not-really smile, tight and cheerless, before letting go and moving for the car. The woman, Joss?-- came around to open the passenger door for him, but she stared razor blades at Fusco the whole time. He didn't have the energy left to feel annoyed; he'd spent it all with Reese. So he just stood there, taking the look, giving no fucks, watching Finch twist his jacked-up body down into the car, counting down the seconds until they'd be gone and he could drive back to the Y and _go to sleep._

\--she was carrying, he realized. He blinked. Yeah, there, when she leaned to close the door-- he could see the tell-tale bump against her jacket: the butt of a gun worn in a shoulder holster.

Okay. So... security, not a secretary. Right.

The door shut, and Joss gave him one last hard look. Flipping her off would have taken energy, and anyway, he didn't need to get into another fight today.


	26. April Fool's.

Fusco made it back to the YMCA and sacked out like a 240-lb bag of Idaho potatoes.

He slept like he had been drugged, which he had, and he woke up with his head hurting and his mouth dry. "Fuck my life," he growled, and the person in the top bunk grumbled at him to keep it down.

Fusco shook several Percocet into his hand and swallowed them dry because he was extra miserable.

He'd been having a weird dream. Fusco sat on the edge of the bed and tried to remember what it was. Something with Reese. He'd been... fighting with Reese again, was that it? He touched gingerly at his bruised face. Reese had been on top of him, pinning him to the ground, and...  
  
\--no. Not fighting. "Jesus Christ," Fusco groaned as he remembered what the dream had been about. Fuckin' hell.

He hurried for the showers.

***

The dream niggled at him all through the day. He was making himself job-hunt, sullen and dogged, but the tiny newspaper print swam in front of him. Instead he found himself thinking of the fight, of the pavement hot beneath him, radiating up into his bones, and Reese's body weight on his own, holding him there, stuck--

Christ. He didn't need this. What he _needed_ was a job.

He walked to the library, the heat making him dizzy and making every scrape and bruise throb like hell. The librarian gave him a double-take when he entered. He ignored it and just flopped into one of the computer chairs, soaking up the library's AC like a stale sponge.

Craigslist gave him nothing he hadn't already seen. He stared dully for a long time at an ad for a go-go dancer before realizing he wasn't really reading it.

Reese was an asshole. A... strong, tough, cocky, crazy... badass motherfucker... asshole, with a grip like steel, and Jesus, those intense eyes of his...

He looked at the library bathroom door, and wondered if you got thrown out if they caught you jerking it.

***

Reese, he thought later that day, while in the showers again at the Y, head against the cool tile of the wall and a hand wrapped around his dick-- Reese was a guy who didn't appreciate what he had.

Big house. Expensive cars. All his bills paid for him. A boyfriend who thought his crazy ass was apparently worth its weight in gold and who'd have bought that bastard anything he wanted. There were worse fates in life, but Reese was blind to all of it, all the good things he had.

Someone, Fusco thought as his hand worked up and down his cock, someone should teach that prick a lesson.

He thought about how if _he_ were in Reese's shoes, he'd damn well not be a mopey fuckhead and make his boyfriend worry so much. Finch was a nice guy. Finch deserved someone better. 

Fusco came hard, imagining hot pavement against his back and Reese's crazy-bright eyes staring down into his own.

***

He was lying on his bunk contemplating another dose of Percocet when his phone rang. Fusco's first thought was,  _Mr. Finch._ He groped for the phone, mashed buttons, brought it to his ear.

"Yeah?"  
  
"Lionel?"

It was Janet. Fusco sat up quick, then hissed at what that did to his ribs. "Nh-- yeah?"

"I just wanted to let you know Lee's coming home tomorrow."

Shit. Shit.  _Shit._ Where had these two weeks gone? What was he going to do?

He said nothing, so Janet kept talking. "You got a place yet?"  
  
"…still working on it," he rasped through a dry mouth.

"Right," she said. "Well. You know the deal. You get a place to live first. I've got to know you're making an effort, Lionel."  
  
"I understand," he said thickly.  
  
"Okay," said Janet. "Well. Call me when you're settled."

"Yeah," he said, and he ended the call with the mash of a button.

Fusco sat still for a long time, and then he started dialing a number, because it was time to stop dreaming, stop thinking about bullshit that had nothing to do with the real world, and accept what had been inevitable ever since he'd left prison with a bitter taste in his mouth-- what had been inevitable since he'd seen the lieutenant standing at his car.

"Hey... hey, this is Lionel Fusco. I want to get a message to Elias..."

***

Two days later, Lionel had his apartment. It wasn't a palace, but it was nice, nicer than his old place, and he had a good view of a park. He looked out the window. It was a nice park. The apartment had two bedrooms, one for Lee. He'd insisted on that.

If he was throwing back in, then a nice park, and two bedrooms, were non-negotiable things.

Scar-coni leaned in the open doorway. When Fusco turned around, he said, "This gonna work for you?"  
  
Fusco thought about it. He thought about the mansion out in Oyster Bay, about mowing the endless lawn, about working in that big beautiful kitchen. He thought about Reese's hand on his throat, the disappointment and anger in Finch's sky-blue eyes.

He'd never see either of them again, he realized. Which was for the best.

"Yeah," he said. "This is gonna work out great."  
  
Scar-coni grinned, and tossed him the keys, a long metal arc through the unfurnished space.  
  
"Then welcome home, man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My April Fool's joke upon my readers. Bless you all.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'mon, guys, everyone knows you can't trust anything you read on the Internet...  
>   
> ... on April 1st. ;)
> 
> I have to admit, I was giggling like an absolute lunatic for most of yesterday. To those of you who fell for it and wrote me expressing your extreme disappointment, well, take solace in the fact that I set out to write the most disappointing conclusion possible... and apparently succeeded! To those of you too clever to be fooled: er, you win this... this complimentary... salt-shaker!
> 
> And now, we return you to your regularly-scheduled Weeds...

"So. Where to?"

"Circle the block, please. That man's going to get into his car, and I'd like to follow him. Discreetly, thank you. It won't be far."  
  
"You're the boss... So. Working a Number on your own? John's not going to like that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hell, I don't know if _I_ like it. You didn't even bring Bear?"

"What _are_ you-- oh. Oh. No, he's not a Number. This is-- he's a-- mmnn. Well. He's..."

"...yes?"

"...it's not work-related. He's on painkillers, though, and he really shouldn't be driving. I simply... want to make sure he reaches his destination without crashing his vehicle."  
  
"…"

"...what?"  
  
"Okay. Okay. Finch, are you aware this guy is HR?"

"--does everyone think I'm no longer capable of running a background check?! _Yes_ , Joss, I _am aware, thank_ you."

***

Fusco woke up to the sound of his phone ringing away on the room's blocky desk. He groped for it on fuzzy instinct, and tried to orient himself: what time was it? What day was it? Why did it feel as though he'd been run over by a truck?  
  
He expected it to be Finch, because of the days he'd spent waiting in dread for that particular call, but by the time he saw Janet's number on the display he'd woken up enough to remember the situation. Mr. Finch was not likely to ever call him again.

"Hey," he wheezed into the phone, eyes squeezed shut against the savage daylight pouring into the room.  
  
"Hey, yourself," said Janet. "This a good time?"

No. No it wasn't. He was back into high-pain levels; he figured he'd slept off the meds and then some. The side of his head pulsed with pain; his ribs were a thread of fire around his body. The YMCA mattress felt thin and plastic-y beneath him but even so he'd have loved to burrow back into it for another hour's sleep.

"S'fine. What's up?"  
  
"Well. Lee's coming home tomorrow. So I thought we should talk."

He got a lot more awake, fast. Christ. Christ, where did the time go? He had wanted to be further along, by now. He had wanted things to be-- different.

He didn't say anything, so Janet kept talking. "So... what's your situation?"

 _Well, yesterday I got in a fight with one of my bosses and now I'm fired. Got some cracked ribs, too. And, oh yeah, still living at the YMCA._  
  
"Still working on things," he said, wrapping his free arm around his middle to try and quiet the pain. Janet made a neutral little noise, a noise that said she wasn't surprised.

"You're still at the YMCA, then."  
  
"Yes," he said, and he tried not to snap the word at her.

"The yardwork job," yeah, he could still hear the skepticism in her tone, "working out for you?"

He closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "It's going fine."

Janet was silent a few seconds. "Well... what I said about a visit still holds. But if-- if you want to see Lee, maybe we could get dinner or something tomorrow. Together."

If he wanted to see his son? If? For two years, he'd--

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good," he said, and then, before his brain could stop him, he said, "My treat."

"You sure?"

Fuck. _With what money, asshole?_ No, he had Finch's last check still. He could buy his family dinner. He could do _that_ fucking much. (It wasn't 'his family' anymore, though. Not for a long time. His son, yeah, but it stopped there...)

"Yeah. Absolutely. Least I can do. You guys pick the place. What's he like, where's he want to eat?"

Janet made this noise, not really a laugh, a little sad. "Same stuff he liked before you got arrested, Lionel. Burgers. Pizza. You know."  
  
He swallowed past the tight pains in his throat and chest. "Yeah. Sure. Two years is... a while, that's all." Two years was forever.

"Sure." He heard the sound of rustling, movement, on her end of the line. "Well. Okay. So, I pick him up at the church at six, if they're on time... Peter's Pizza Palace is not too far. Let's try for seven, there?"  
  
"That's-- yeah, that's great." His mouth felt dry and numb. "Look. Thank you. I know I don't-- you could be a hardass, right now, if you wanted to be. You're not. So. So-- thank you."  
  
Janet sighed. "Yeah. Well. You're still his dad. He needs you in his life." (The unspoken words sang clear as a bell: _if you're not fucking up, if I can trust you, if he can trust you, if it's safe._ )

"Yeah. Yeah. I won't-- you won't regret it," he said, and God, he needed to make it be true. He needed, more than anything, to be the father Lee deserved. To make up for the fact that he hadn't.

"I hope not," said Janet, and then she said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Goodbye."  
  
He sat on the edge of the bunk for a while, the phone in his hands, breathing slow and shallow to keep his ribs quiet.

Time to hit the want ads again...

***

He was in the lobby, looking through the fine-print and trying to focus through his pounding head, when Marcus came in. The big guy gave him a nod, then a double-take.

"Jesus. What truck did you tangle with?"

Fusco gave him a toothache grin, folding the paper. "You should see the other guy."  
  
"Yeah?" said Marcus, with one eyebrow arch.

He was really tempted to say, _Yeah, he's gonna be using crutches for a while,_ but he didn't have the energy for jokes, even private ones. "No," he admitted. "He kicked my ass, pretty much. Don't get me wrong, I got in a few shots, but..."

"Hmnn," said Marcus, coming closer and setting his gym bag down. "I'm guessing you won't be lifting, tonight."

Fusco laughed, a little raw, and fuck, _that_ hurt, all along his ribs. Ow. "You're batting four-hundred, buddy."

Marcus nodded philosophically, resigned to his lack of a work-out partner, and looked down at the want ads Fusco had been circling in red pen. "Lost the job? What'd you do, dig up the wrong rhododendron?"

"Hey, not bad. Comedy Cellar has a place for talent like you, Marcus-- cleaning the fuckin' bathrooms."

Marcus laughed, a deep booming laugh. Fusco smiled a little in turn despite himself.  
  
"…don't suppose the club where you're bouncing needs extra hands?" he asked, also in spite of himself. Marcus sobered up, rocking back on his heels and giving Fusco a look-over.  
  
"Maybe," he said, "but not if you look like you just got your ass handed to you. Makes the punks think they can start something."  
  
"That's fair," sighed Fusco, and he picked up the paper again, while Marcus headed for the gym.

***

He made calls. He sent e-mails. He went through the motions, figuring that if nothing else, he was too dumb to know when to quit. He had that going for him, at least.

He cashed Mr. Finch's check, and paid for two more nights on a shitty mattress. Then he went outside, into the throbbing, stinking heat, and he popped open the hood on his car in the Y's parking lot and stared down into the oily guts of his engine.

It had been a while since he'd really had to deal with a car. Back before, he'd had a mechanic-- Lou, the guy that all the guys went to, in HR-- an ex-cop himself; retired to live his dream of running an auto shop. Fusco knew cars okay, but he wasn't a gearhead. An oil leak could be forty fuckin' things, and maybe five of those he could fix on his own, if he was lucky.

Still, it didn't hurt to look. It was something productive to do, and he thought if he looked at another fucking want ad today he might snap and kill somebody, so...

Cardboard. He needed some cardboard, to stick under the car, to isolate exactly where the oil was dripping down at. Fusco dug some out of the dumpster (which was lucky, he figured: a nice piece of cardboard was a prime fuckin' bit of property for the low-lifes that drifted around the YMCA's periphery. This was the equivalent of a queen mattress to some poor bastards) and then he crouched down, stiff and painful and wheezing, to slide it under the car.

His ribs hurt so much more than was fair or feasible. He'd broken bones before, and it had never been like this; but usually you could immobilize whatever hurt, lock it down, keep it still. Your ribs, unfortunately, had to be free to move. And every breath was someone slicing you with a fuckin' steak knife.

It didn't get any better when he levered himself down onto the filthy pavement to glance under the car and play his flashlight around (it was his department-issued one. It had still been in the car, never gotten turned in or reclaimed--). He breathed in a thin whine. Between the pain and the heat that was roiling off the asphalt up into his body, sweat was pouring off him.

Reminded him of something, though. He tried to think about what, as a distraction, as he shone the light over the greasy engine block.

...the heat from Mr. Finch's driveway, like a furnace, hot on his back and legs as Reese loomed over him with his eyes crazy-bright and his hands locked around his throat. Yeah. That wasn't a useful memory, right now.

He wound up on his shoulder, to free up one hand to feel for the leak. Probably not a good idea to think about what the asphalt here had been witness to, how many druggies or bums had pissed or puked or jerked off over this section of grimy parking lot behind the YMCA. At least Oyster Bay driveways were _clean._

Here. Here it was wet-sticky, black scum sticking to his fingers. He fumbled upwards, his breathing a harsh rasp in the space beneath the car. He stuck the flashlight between his teeth to be able to use both hands, and the light played around wildly for a moment, over radiator and fuel hose, battery box and fan blades and a little black square and the fuel filter and--  
  
He looked back. He grabbed at the flashlight and shone it over again, squinting at the square. It was about two inches to each side. It was stuck to the underside of his battery's housing case. It was cleaner than anything else around it, free of the layers of grime and grease that were the environmental ambiance of the Toyota's engine space.

Fusco squinted at it, and reached for it.

He wound up needing to pry it off with his pocket knife. It plopped into his oil-smeared palm, weighing very little. Fusco dragged himself out from beneath the car one painful inch at a time, until he could look at it in the light.

Black, clean, new plastic. No writing. No markings. A slot on one end, like for a cable, or a charger or a, a USB or-- something like that. Some tacky glue on the one side, where it had been stuck to his car.

"The fuck is this?" he muttered, but he knew. He'd been a cop too long not to know.

It was a GPS tracker.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay for this chapter. For some reason it gave me much more trouble than anticipated and necessitated several rewrites. Props to April_Valentine for calling something, though.

The sun was hot, but ice-water danced down Fusco's spine. A tracker. A tracker in his _car._

He was frozen in his awkward twist on the asphalt, his fingers loose and limp around the black plastic square. Grind it under his heel, he thought. Or throw it onto the street, to crunch under endless tires-- he drew his hand back, for the throw.

\--no. He couldn't destroy it, because he didn't know who'd put it there. Which meant he didn't know what they'd do when their tracker stopped working. Fusco dragged himself into a sitting position on the baking pavement and took a long, careful breath.

Was it HR? Had HR  _tagged_ him, like a dog, so they could know where he was, what he was doing? They didn't let go what was theirs, was that it?  
  
He forced out another breath, and then another after that, regular, like he was doing CPR. No. No, this wasn't HR. Just like Marcus wasn't HR: it wasn't their _style._ HR didn't bug you; they sent guys to break your kneecaps. (He should know. He'd been one of the kneecap breakers.)

So, so, if it wasn't HR--

He knew who, though. He'd seen the guy  _planting_ it, hadn't he? The guy with the scar. Carl's guy.

Lionel sat there a while, on the hot, dirty pavement, just breathing. And then he put the tracker back where he'd found it. They could find him anyway. They knew where he was staying-- but beyond that, they knew about his son. Just like HR did. Lee was worse than a pair of handcuffs, for locking him down, for keeping him within easy reach.  
  
Fusco went back inside, the engine leak forgotten. He scrubbed the oil off his hands in the men's room, his fingers shaking and his breathing rasping in his throat. He wanted desperately to take a swing at someone, anyone-- but there was no one here for him to hit, and no one he could safely hit, anyway. And that anger, that was what had gotten him into trouble with Reese, so he needed to grind down on it, hard. In order to function. In order to find a job.

He stared at himself in the mirror. He saw a short, fat loser: black eye, busted lip, two days' stubble, and bruising all down one side of his face. He whispered, "Yeah, who's going to hire  _you_ , asshole?" 

(And Lee, Lee was going to see him looking like this, see his dad again, all beat to shit and--)

Fusco closed his eyes and curled his fingers over the edges of the sink. He knew recidivism stats as well as anyone, better than most. As a cop, he'd done his share of cynical smirking at all the repeat offenders. It was a Truth: nobody  _really_ changed. Every ex-con was just someone who hadn't backslid  _yet._

From the other side, now, and Christ, he'd never thought how few your options might be. Well, now he knew: too few to fuck them up with temper tantrums, with fistfights. Hindsight was a bitch.

Lionel leaned forward, until his forehead touched the coolness of the mirror, his breathing coming in soft and shallow puffs against the glass. He was still leaning there, several minutes later, when the door opened.

It was Marcus. Fusco gave him a little nod and went back to scrubbing beneath his fingernails.

"Man, you really do look like shit."

"Thanks," he said wearily.

"Anytime. Hey, are you doing anything tonight?"

Fusco leaned his head back until he could see the ceiling. The motion made pain ooze down his spine, flowing through all the sore spots. "Yeah. Sleeping. Why?"

"Come to the club. Watch the girls, have a drink on me. You look like you need some R&R."

...Fusco didn't know what it said about him, exactly, that the thought of strippers (when he hadn't so much as seen pussy in two years) didn't do much for him, but the thought of a  _drink_ made him suddenly, desperately thirsty.

He'd better say no, he thought. He had better say, _thanks, but no thanks,_ because, because, he was going to see Lee tomorrow, he had to be sober...  
  
"That sounds fucking fantastic," he said, and ripped a paper towel free from the dispenser with more force than was really necessary.

***

Marcus had told him to change, which, he didn't have much to change  _to,_ just a clean polo shirt-- but he was dirty with grease and worse, so he hadn't argued the point. Wasn't like he was aiming to score, though. He was going to drink, and who gave a shit what he looked like for that. 

The club had the toothless, sleepy look of any jiggle joint by daylight: the neon sign turned off, the sidewalk empty except for cigarette butts from the night before. It brought back memories: not good ones, not nights-out-with-the-guys, but daytime visits. Shake-downs, he remembered wearily. HR taking its cut, from the untaxed liquor sales, the drugs the bartenders dealt, the 'extra services' from the girls.

What had Stills always called it--  _the three Bs?_ Booze, blow, and bitches. Yeah. Yeah.

They went in a side door. Inside was... the usual, because every strip joint was the same beneath the trappings: tables, a stage, a long bar. The bartender was pulling chairs down, but nodded at Marcus.

"Hey, Chang. The boss here?" Marcus said.

"Nah, not yet."  
  
"Tina?"  
  
"Yeah, she's in the back."  
  
"Cool. Hey, this is Lionel-- he's drinking on me tonight, so take care of him, okay? I gotta change."

Marcus disappeared through a staff door, and the bartender waved Lionel to the bar stools. Lionel sat, gingerly. The AC was blasting on the banged-up side of his face, cranked up high against the heat of bodies that would fill the room in a few hours' time, but cold as fuck right now.  
  
"What can I get you?" said the bartender, sidling into position. He looked too young to be serving drinks, Fusco thought. But then, everyone looked young to him since getting out.

"A Manhattan. Jack Daniel's."  
  
"You got it, man."  
  
Lionel watched the kid's hands moving on the bottles like it was a shell game. When the kid cracked the vermouth, he caught a whiff, that spicy-sweet scent, and, Christ, but the wanting hit like bricks... He cleared his throat, knotting his hands together in his lap, watching until Chang spun the finished glass on the bartop, twisting the orange peel fancy, like it mattered-- like he wasn't going to hammer that drink down, and ask for another one.

"Here you go."

His lips were dry; he licked them. "That's great. Thanks."

His fingers felt wooden as he slid the cocktail closer. There was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth that he couldn't wait to wash away with whiskey and vermouth: a taste he figured he had to know pretty well by now, all things fucking considered. That cough-syrup-taste, defeat. Because that's what this was, wasn't it? It was tapping out. Slapping the mat, with the weary resignation of a wrestler who'd given up on the win and just wanted the hits to stop coming. It was the admission that he couldn't cut it, couldn't do it right, couldn't do anything but slide back into all those old, bad habits.

Fuck it, he might as well call Elias too.

It felt like he sat there a long time, with his head and his ribs hurting, and his hand locked around the glass like he wanted to arm-wrestle it. The bar was quiet except for the sounds of the kid setting up for the evening. People came in, the girls, but he didn't really notice them as they said hellos to the bartender and headed for the staff door. He looked at the cherry sitting in its red-gold bath, that fuckin' little maraschino bastard, saying up at him,  _come on in, the water's fine..._

It would be just the one. It would be just the one, and he'd watch the girls, and go back to the Y, and he'd be sober tomorrow, when it mattered, for Lee. Sure. Right.

Fuck everything. He grabbed at the glass (his hands were sweaty, his sweat was on the glass, it shifted in his grip like a gun's butt) and he raised it to his lips and--

"Hey, honey-- you're Lionel, right?"

He jumped, some whiskey sloshing out the glass. Christ.

The speaker was one of the girls. She had what he'd always called  _$10K Tits_ ; he was in a good position to notice this, because he was about eye-level with them. After a few seconds he managed to drag his eyes upwards.

"I'm Tina," she said, holding out a hand to him. Lionel looked her over. She was probably no older than that girl back at the seafood place, though they couldn't have been from more different worlds, the WASPette with her orthodontia and her nice respectable summer job, and Tina here, a black chick working as a titty dancer. Her fingernails were electric purple; so was her lipstick. Went with the plat-blonde hair. She had a smoking body, and a face that was probably just average beneath the make-up, but in this job, nobody cared about your face, did they? Lionel shook her hand, slowly.

"Yeah. That's me. How you doing?"

"Good, honey, I'm good. You don't look too hot, though," she said, giving him an obvious once-over that made him grimace.

"Geez. Thanks for the ego boost. Look, no offense, but--" he wiped at the spilled booze with a paper napkin, "--you're wasting your time, sweetheart. I'm so broke I couldn't pay attention."

She pursed those violet lips at him. One exactingly-manicured eyebrow popped upward. "What," said Tina, each word real precise, "exactly, do you think I want?"

He squinted again. He'd been married long enough to know that tone. It said,  _you think real hard about your answer._

Well, what the fuck  _did_ she want from him, if she wasn't looking for a customer? Fusco groaned under his breath, too tired and sore to navigate the intricacies of how he'd apparently fucked up again. "Lady, I don't fuckin' know."

"Tina. It's Tina." She sighed, and set down a shiny plastic bag, purple and black tiger stripes, on the bar. "Look, turn this way, baby. I need light to work."

He obeyed, because he didn't have the energy for arguing. She got out bottles and tubes and powders and she slipped her hand under his jaw (soft, she had soft hands, when had he last been touched without it  _hurting_ \--) and--

"You're putting make-up on me," he said, blank and dumb.

"Marcus didn't say you were so  _smart,_ baby," she said, and dusted powder along the bruised side of his face, soft, with a cotton ball. "Hold still."

"...why are you putting make-up on me?" To his own ears it sounded exhausted and baffled, almost a whine.

"Because--" her tongue was peeking out between her lips as she puff-puff-puffed the cotton ball along his jawline, went back for more powder, started again, "--Rick isn't going to hire you if you look like you just threw down with the Crips."

"Rick?"

"The  _boss,_ honey."

The boss.  _Hire you._ He figured it had to be the Percocet, making him slow, because the words sunk down in his head like the cherry in his drink, not connecting to anything, for about twenty seconds, while she kept touching and dabbing and doing whatever it was she was doing--

Marcus had said, Marcus had said-- not looking like he'd just gotten his ass handed to him, that's what Marcus had said, and he'd... Marcus had arranged this, then. Made it so he wouldn't look like that. So that he could have an interview.

He had nothing with which to repay him, he thought, a little frantically. Like with Finch, how Finch had taken him to the clinic, paid for his treatment, paid for his meds, driven him home, and there wasn't a way he could even  _begin_ to repay the guy-- but this was worse, because with Mr. Finch, yeah, you could make the case that Finch owed it to him, but not with Marcus. Marcus didn't owe him jack-shit, and Marcus had gone out of his way to try and help him out. Fusco took a deep breath, gripping at the knees of his jeans with his scraped fingers. 

He was a grown goddamn man and he wasn't gonna  _cry,_ fuck-you-very-much, Percocet or no Percocet.

"Well, you look a little less roadkill."

He opened his eyes, and there was Marcus, gym clothes switched for black trousers and a black polo shirt with the club logo on it. Fusco grinned up at him, crooked and painful.

_Thank you. Jesus, thank you, I fucking owe you one. Big time,_ he thought, while he said,"Hey, fuck you for not telling me, man, I almost got plastered. Wouldn't have made a good impression, you know?"

"Don't  _move_ ," said Tina, poking his cheek with a purple nail. "I'm almost done."

"Yeah. Sorry. Hey," he said, squinting up at her while trying not to move his head, "could you do this again tomorrow? --please?"

She pursed her lips at him. "Got another job interview?"

"Yeah, something like that," he said. "--you want a drink? Because I got this one here I don't need."


	29. Chapter 29

Fusco drummed his fingers on the table, watching the doorway of the pizza joint with more dedication than he'd ever given any stake-out. When he wasn't staring at the door, he was squinting at his reflection in the shiny-if-dented metal of the napkin dispenser, making sure he hadn't messed up the make-up.

It looked fine, really. Sure, if you were looking hard, from close-up, you _might_ see the texture was kinda funky. And his lip was still swollen, even if the split itself was well-hidden. But overall, it was really good work.

Tina was a fuckin' theatre major, it turned out. Shakespeare by day, Shakira by night. Took all types, didn't it.

He checked his watch. It was 7:04. He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling.

If their positions were reversed-- if he had been the one bringing Lee-- then he knew what it would feel like, to have her blowing up his phone, asking where he was, pointing out he was late... so. So he was going to be the big man, right now, and not call her. He could do that.

He fished out a piece of ice from his Pepsi and chewed on it, crunch-crunch. The pizza place technically had AC, but it was sticky warm inside all the same, the smell of dough hanging thick in the air. He remembered the pizzas as pretty good, though. They'd come here as a family, Before.

The door jangled, but it wasn't Janet and Lee. Chick on a cell phone, swagging in like she owned the joint. Shitkicker boots, black jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket despite the heat. Nice body. He registered these things on automatic, then went back to watching the door.

There was a claw machine right next to it, one of those quarter-devouring fuckers that was the bane of every parent's existence, because your kid would wheedle five bucks to toss at the thing, and then be upset he hadn't caught anything, and you'd be like, shit, okay, how hard can it be, let me get something for him-- and ten minutes later, you'd have wasted _another_ five bucks and still not have a goddamn stuffed animal.

\--okay, maybe not every parent. Maybe it had just been him, being a sucker for Lee.

7:07, said his watch. He dug out his phone and checked it for missed calls. Nada. At 7:10 he could call her, right? That'd be okay? Not too dickish?

He was seized with the sudden, bowel-twisting fear that _Something Had Happened,_ something that started with the letters HR (or Elias), that his kid was in a car somewhere, that the phone would ring and it'd be Carl's guy (or Stills)--

Fusco exhaled, stretched his legs out forcefully beneath the table. Don't be a moron. She was just late. Don't go getting crazy.

"--triple fucking meat. I see sausage and pepperoni only. You see ham? I don't see ham. I see _goddamn green peppers._ "

The girl in black was arguing with the pimply kid at the counter about her pizza. He snagged another piece of ice and watched, grateful for the distraction from his own spiraling thoughts.

"What do you _think_ I want, jackass? I want my slaughtered pork product. Lots of it. Dump that shit _on there,_ you know? Yeah, you _better_ take it back. Get rid of that green crap. If you spit on my pizza I will fucking kill you."

Ah, New York. Where even the cute ones have dirty mouths, he thought. The poor kid at the counter took the pizza into the back. Little Miss Attitude grabbed a soda cup she hadn't paid for and filled it up, then drained half of it. Then, she dropped into a plastic chair and put her feet up on the nearest table. He snorted.

She heard it. Dark eyes snapped his way. "What are _you_ looking at?"

Jeez, she was what, five-two, five-three? Okay, not that he was a giant himself-- but she couldn't be more than a buck-twenty, soaking wet. Like a goddamn chihuahua, he thought, and hid his smile in his Pepsi cup. What'd you call it, a Napoleon complex? He didn't know you got it with girls too.

"I dunno. Your cute boots?"

She looked at him, then made a show of looking at her boots, lifting one foot then the other, then settling them right back down on top of the table. "They can kick your ass."

Lionel took a slurk of his soda. "Easy target, I got a big ass."

The door jangled and he snapped his head that way and--

\--there he was, his son. Lee. There was _Lee,_ Christ, he'd grown, he'd put on two inches but still, that was his son, his little boy. Janet was a footnote behind him. Fusco was on his feet quicker than his aching ribs liked, all but launching himself that way, but he stopped, caught between love and dread.  
  
"Hey," he said, his voice coming out like the last bit of toothpaste from a tube. "Hey, champ."

Lee gazed at him from what seemed this big, big gulf. Across interstellar space, in that twelve feet between his table and the door. Lee had a summer tan, and a sunburn too, little bits of peeled skin on his nose and cheeks and on his bare shoulders. His sneakers were muddy, which you didn't really get in the city, and his eyes were dark and wary, watching Fusco. Lionel took it all in with a glance, his gut seizing with worry.  
  
Lionel swallowed. He said, "Jesus, you've gotten tall."

Lee came at him then, shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. For one vertigo-laden second Fusco thought his kid was gonna attack him, that the charge would end in a punch to his jaw, or his nuts, and an angry scream at him for _leaving,_ for not _being there--_

It was a hug, instead. Lee wrapped his wiry, brown arms around him, tight. Which-- well, that _hurt_ , actually, a fucking lot, oh Christ his fucking _ribs;_ the air whistle out of him and the world got kinda gray at the edges.

But not for all of Mr. Finch's money would he have let on that it hurt. Not for anything, in the whole world, would he have told Lee to stop. So instead, he ground down on all those curses trying to fight a shrill way into the air, and he put his arms around Lee in turn, and breathed through his nose in short, shallow puffs until the dizziness kinda passed and he could force out the words, "Yikes-- go easy on your old man-- you're getting too strong for me."

Lee held on another second or two, then drew back and gazed up at him with a tense, serious face. "I'm sorry we're late," he said, and oh Jesus, oh Jesus but his son sounded old, grown-up, what 12-year old said shit like that? For fuck's sake-- he was the one who should be apologizing to Lee, not the other way around.

"Don't--" he cleared his throat, "--don't sweat it. Hey, Janet."

She gave him the barest of nods, her gaze long and thoughtful on him, but he didn't give a damn, not with his son here, close enough to touch again. He took a little step back, grabbed the kid's shoulders in both hands. "Here, let me look at you--"

Lee looked good, tan and fit. He wasn't a tall kid, but he wasn't short either, not the way that he'd been a short kid, and a fat kid, and Fusco was glad of that, that Lee wouldn't get name-calling (well, he wouldn't get called _that,_ anyway, kids could always come up with _some_ shit). Lee's hair was wild, and longer than he remembered, down over his ears and into his eyes; Fusco ruffled it with his thick fingers.  
  
"Looking shaggy there, buddy."

"He'll get a haircut before school starts," Janet said from elsewhere, but his eyes were only on Lee. Lee was squinting up at him, but there was a smile starting there, now, and that made him look more like the Lee that Fusco remembered, the goofy ten-year-old with big ears and a missing front tooth.  
  
"You hungry?" he asked, and Lee nodded emphatically.

"Okay. You pick the pizza, then. Anything you want." Lee moved for the counter, and Fusco followed. He settled his hands on Lee's shoulders from behind, just letting them rest there, feeling the sun-burned heat and the skinny bones beneath. He gave Lee's shoulders a squeeze. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he bent down a bit and kissed the top of Lee's messy head.

 _"Daadd,"_ Lee said, squirming, the tips of his ears turning pink, and it was sweetest music to his ears.

Attitude was on her way out, pizza box raised up at head level. Her jacket swung open with the angle of her arm, and he saw the flash of metal. Then she was past him, heading for the door, while he stood there a second, slow-processing.

He turned and stared after her. Not like he could tell from the back, though. And so what, so what if it had been a gun? Concealed carry was legal. She wasn't the only chick packing heat in the city.

"...really, Lionel?" Janet said under her breath.

That was the thing, though-- she wasn't the only one, there was the woman from the other night, and NYC wasn't the easiest place in the world to get a permit, what were the odds you'd run into two women who--

"Huh?" he said, becoming vaguely aware that Janet was trying to kill him with her eyes _._ "What?"

Janet stared daggers at him, then down at Lee's head, then tipped her head back towards where he'd been looking. "Check out younger women on your own time," she mouthed near-silently.

He felt his face heating up. "That's not what I-- I wasn't-- look, she had a gun, it was a cop thing."

Janet raised a skeptical brow. "Well, you're not a cop anymore," she said, and _fuck her,_ fuck her for saying it, right then, with Lee right there, yeah, alright, Lee _knew that,_ of course Lee _knew_ it, but just-- fuck her, goddammit, fuck.

He didn't want to look at his son's face right that second, or Janet's much either, so he looked back out the window, his teeth gritted--

\--and froze, because, it was the other lady, what had Mr. Finch called her? _Joss_ \-- Joss was in the driver's seat of the black SUV that Attitude was entering. Like he'd conjured her by thinking about it.

"Son of a _bitch,"_ he blurted.

"Dad?"

_"Lionel."_

"Yeah, yeah, hang on--" He took a few steps closer to the door. The SUV didn't linger; it pulled away from the curb and back into traffic, and he watched it go, his brows pinched together.

What the hell kind of accounting firm needed two gun-toting women on staff? Charlie's Angels?  
  
"Dad, what is it? What's going on?"

He tore himself out of it, because-- that didn't matter. What mattered was right here. His son. He shook his head, and took his place in line again behind Lee, an arm around his kid's shoulders and neck in a loose headlock. "Nothin'. Not a thing. What, you haven't ordered yet? You're holding up the line, champ."

Lee twisted in his grip enough to look up at him, to make a face. "We're the only people _in_ here."

"Yeah, you, me, your mom-- that's three of us, that's a line. You really only need two, you know."

Janet's eyes drilled suspicious holes into his skull, but Lee was scrunching his nose up at him, so it was easy to ignore her, to pretend he didn't see the look. He nudged Lee forward to the counter.

And later, when he'd given most of the remaining money in his wallet to Lee to blow on the goddamn claw machine, Janet leaned in and muttered, "I'm not going to ask you what that was about, Lionel, because I don't really give a shit. All I care about is if Lee's safe with you. That you're not running with your 'old friends.' Are we clear?"

He watched Lee, maneuvering the crane around: Lee's face focused and intent, tongue peeking out between his lips... "I've done a lot of stupid shit, Janet, but I would never do anything-- _anything--_ that I thought would get Lee hurt. You gotta give me that much credit, at least."

"I do," she said, grimly, "which is why we're doing this at all. I don't think you'd ever intentionally put him in a dangerous situation. But you know what they say about good intentions."

The arcade machine buzzed out defeat; Lee's small face fell in disappointment, but he shoved another of Fusco's dollar bills into the machine and the lights flashed up again, with accompanying beeps and dings. The crane shuddered over the sea of stuffed animals and team mascots, then dropped like a rock.

"Yeah," said Fusco, softly. "I know about those."

***

He stared at the bottom of the top bunk bed, his hands laced together on his chest, his gut full of pizza and his ribs hurting. There was a radio blaring in the hallway and technically they had until ten p.m. before quiet hours started, but he doubted he could have fallen asleep anyway, radio or no radio.

He was trying to think about his son, about apartments. Janet had laid down some terms, and while they weren't really anything he wouldn't have insisted on already (a decent neighborhood, a decent place), he had to take them into account now, into his search. And Lee had asked when they'd see each other again, and it grated, having to look to Janet for the cue on that, but-- but even with all that, he wasn't really thinking about Lee.

He was thinking about a string of letters and digits.

COL8915. License plate for the SUV. He tapped his fingers against his knuckles in cadence-- Cee - Oh - El - Eight - Nine - One - Five. Couldn't punch it in the database himself, or ask motor crimes about it, but-- he knew a guy at the DMV, or he had, back before, and maybe he could...

You only needed two points to make a line, and you only needed two weird... things, coincidences, whatever... to start making you kinda curious. Fusco figured he had more than two.

What accounting firm hired ex-Army guys? Or routinely armed its-- whatever. Security, were the two chicks security? 'Joss' had looked professional enough, sure, but Attitude... _she_ hadn't been wearing business casual.

'Course, it was Sunday. Maybe they'd been off the clock. Just... going around, getting pizza, guns in shoulder holsters, driving what was totally a company car... right, sure, that made sense...

Lionel rubbed at his face. "You're a paranoid shithead," he whispered. Finch had never said it was an accounting firm, he pointed out to himself. Just that he'd _done_ accounting there. So the company could be... anything, any dozens of things, that had completely legitimate reasons to need armed security. Anything that included danger on the job, to put Reese out of commission, and anything that paid well enough to bankroll retirement out in Oyster Bay... anything that meant Mr. Finch needed to drive in a suitcase full of reports, but he never used his printer-- and why the hell would you make a guy with a bum neck haul in _reports,_ anyway? Couldn't you just fuckin' email the stuff? That was how everybody did things now, right?

Points of data, of... weirdness. String out enough of them, you had yourself a line...

...leading to what? To where? To somewhere Not His Damned Business, that was where.

Maybe it was all innocent, a legitimate fucking business. Or maybe there was a meth lab upstairs in the mansion and Finch was toting speed back into the city. The point was, Janet was right: he wasn't a goddamn cop anymore, and now, he wasn't Finch's gardener either. He was Lee's dad, and that was all he was.

And the last thing he needed was to make any more enemies.

"Do your own time," he whispered to the empty bunk bed above him, and then he rolled over, and punched his pillow, and went to sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

Monday came, like Mondays did. Lionel opened his eyes and stared at the bunk overhead. He extended his toes under the thin sheet; curled them slowly. Then he rolled his shoulders back into the mattress... took a slow, deliberate breath, trying not to aggravate his ribs... and closed his eyes again.

He didn't have to get up.

Didn't have to rush out to the car for the drive out to Oyster Bay. And he didn't have that nagging dread, either, that he had to get up and look at job ads, again, that he needed to be doing that _right now,_ no relaxing, no lazing, get up, go go go--

He thought it might be the first time he'd really felt relaxed since... ever. Since before prison.

Okay, life wasn't exactly peachy all around. It still hurt to breathe. His face still felt like hamburger. And the club owner hadn't said  _for sure_ that he had the job-- Rick had said Lionel should swing by Monday night for a trial run and they'd see how he did, fine.

So maybe he shouldn't get too comfy. And they hadn't talked about salary either, so the numbers might be too low to swing the rents he wanted, he might need a second job, that was a possibility.

 _And_ , the thought intruded, he still had Elias's tracker to worry about.

\--okay. Yeah. In retrospect, a lot of things still sucked.

_But._ But he had seen his son, yesterday. Hugged his son. And Lee didn't hate him, Lee didn't look at him like he was a disappointment, or a rat-bastard; Lee still said  _Dad_ and wanted to spend time with him. And with that knowledge warm in his belly, nothing about the world was quite as terrible as it had been forty-eight hours prior.

He slept in. It felt great.

***

"Good morning, John."

"Afternoon, really."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. How's the leg?"

"Fine."

"...and your head?"

"Fine."

"Well. Good."

"Mmh. Your houseboy's late."

"...I beg your pardon?"

"Your houseboy? _Lionel?_ Convicted felon? Bears a resemblance to a refrigerator?"

"... _yes_ , I know who you're talking about. There's really no need to continue being petty over, as you say, _my_ houseboy. Celebrate if you must, but I'm not going to play along."

"--what?"

"Oh don't insult me by playing dumb, John. You wanted me to fire him; I've done so. You _won_. Congratulations. I'll be in my study."

***

The eating-out stuff needed to stop, Lionel mused later that day as he counted out five bucks for a roach coach burrito. Even eating cheap, it added up. If he was really gonna shoestring things, he needed an oven, a stove, a fridge of his own. There was ramen, he supposed, but you couldn't really live on that shit.

He didn't have to be at the club until six, so he took advantage of the fact that he was actually in the city, during business hours, to do crap he hadn't been able to during the Oyster Bay gig. He was overdue for a face-to-face with his parole officer, which he wasn't looking forward to but it wasn't like he had a choice. There was court paperwork to go through, mail to pick up, and he got over to one apartment, at least, but there were broken syringes in the stairwell and he said  _oh hell no_ to himself before even seeing the place.

He had paperwork to do at the DMV too, but the clock ticked forward and past five without getting his ass there, so, tomorrow, it could be tomorrow. Having his days free to do stuff would be great, he thought. Bouncing would work a lot better with his schedule than the gardening thing. Really, this was gonna be a lot better all around.

His optimism lasted roughly until he got to the club that night and heard about the pay.

"Ten bucks an hour," said Rick, who was chewing on Nicorette gum as he spoke and looking into a file cabinet, rather than at him. Lionel hadn't gotten the greatest vibe off the club owner on Saturday night, but whatever, you didn't jump to form judgments on a guy who might be hiring you, so, he'd told himself not to write the guy off as an asshole _too_ quickly.

Now he was wondering how long he needed to give himself before he could pass such judgments. He held the official club polo shirt that had been tossed his way, doing unhappy mental math as he envisioned an income a quarter of what he'd be making under Finch.

Rick looked up at him still standing there, and quirked a brow. "What, not good enough for you, kid?"

Rick was also, by Fusco's estimate, in his thirties. He could take a lot of shit, but being called a kid by somebody he had ten years on easy (and who had a shitty little soul patch going on) was annoying. Still...

He plastered on a version of the same friendly smile he'd tried with Reese, at first. "Hey, I'm not complaining."

Rick's attention was already back in the file cabinet. He dug out some papers and tossed them onto the desk of his cramped office, before sitting down and giving Fusco a long look.

"You _look_ like you're complaining. Listen," he said, short and sharp. "I'm offering you the job as a favor to my man Marcus. If you'd come in here on your own? You're like five-six, you're fatter than my mother-in-law, and it looks like the only bouncing you've done has been down the stairs... I would have said _see ya._ I'm taking a risk by hiring you, because I don't know you and I don't know what you're like. And if you fuck up in my club and seriously injure a patron, you know who gets sued? Both of us-- but I'm the one with a reputation and an establishment to lose.

"Bouncing's not a job you do to get rich. You get free drinks if it doesn't fuck you up, you get to watch the girls dance, and you get ten bucks an hour. Take it or leave it."

Fusco briefly entertained an unhealthy fantasy: the thought of himself back before, here with Stills and some of the others-- shaking this dickweasel down for protection, watching him fall all over himself to make sure that they were happy, eagerly offering them free drinks, free lapdances, whatever they wanted... The good old days, huh.

Now he had to jump when this asshole said so. Great. Fine.

"You're the boss, boss," he said with another fake smile, and he took the papers Rick thrust at him, and he went to go change.

***

The men's room was a six on the scale of one to cesspit. He changed shirts. The shirt Rick had tossed him was too long for him, so he wound up tucking in about a foot of fabric into his khaki trousers, which wasn't unusual. He made a mental note that he needed to buy black trousers. Out of that pissant paycheck he'd be getting.

Marcus was pulling down chairs from the tables when he emerged; Lionel headed over to give him a hand. His back still felt like he'd had a few sledgehammer massages, but he'd worked through worse.

"Anything I ought to know before customers start arriving?"

"Well... you any good at spotting a fake ID?"

He thought of how many he'd identified as a detective, and couldn't help a little grin. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Cool. So be on the lookout for that, and for shitheads trying to slip in without paying cover. Be firm but polite. Most of the guys who wash out of bouncing are the ones trying to prove something: you're not here to fight, but you'll run into a lot of drunk punks who want you to. Get physical only as a last resort, keep your cool. Guys'll try and start shit... but girls who want you to give them a break will offer you a look at their tits, a blowjob, stuff like that."

Fusco thought of every Article 230 who he'd picked up streetwalking, and the offers he'd gotten to not take them down to the station. "Yeah, I know the type."

"Uh-huh. --I shouldn't have to say this, but, you know, don't go for it. Rick gets pissed if he catches you cutting a skank some slack."

Fusco smirked as he set a chair down. "Did you find that one out the hard way?"

Marcus snorted. "Maybe. But drunk college chicks are some of the biggest spenders, with the fruity drinks and girls' nights, and above all else? Rick cares about the money."

The bartender was setting up; he gave Fusco a little nod, which Fusco returned as he followed Marcus's lead around the room. "Yeah... kind of a tightwad, isn't he."

Marcus gave a little shrug. "He pays me okay, but I'm his right-hand guy. For most guys, bouncing's not full-time-- it's a way to pick up a little extra cash, that's it."

"Or pay for a bunk at the Y," Fusco sighed. So... yeah, reality check: he still needed a real job. This just bought him time. He guessed he couldn't ask for more.

"We stay to help clean up after last call," Marcus said. "You can drink on the house, but if you get smashed, Rick will kick you to the curb."

That was a temptation he'd have to watch, he thought. Open bar + Lionel Fusco = bad combo. "Anything else?"

"Yeah: don't get stupid with any of the girls."

"Rule of Rick's?"

"Rule of mine. It just makes drama, man. Keep it professional: there's a dozen jiggle joints in Brooklyn, you can stuff the G-strings at any of them but this one. We don't shit where we eat."

"No arguments here."

The service door buzzed. It turned out to be a delivery driver, ten boxes of booze that needed to be brought in. Marcus looked at him and said, "You got this?"

His ribs did not like the idea. _Suck it up_. "Yeah, sure, go do what you need to do, I'll get it inside." He was four boxes in, huffing his way carefully along the tight hall that led to the back-of-the-bar, when he heard the voice of Jimmy Stills.

He froze, nearly dropping twelve bottles of Jose Cuervo. Couldn't be, but-- yeah, that was Stills, his laugh, coming from out in the main room-- Fusco lowered the box like it was a bomb, and then he side-stepped back to the doorway.

Yeah. There was Stills, looking the same as a few weeks back: leather jacket, cocky grin, thumbs hooked in the belt-loops of his jeans. Two guys with him: he recognized O'Malley, but the other one was new. Stills was up in Marcus's face, and Marcus had four inches and fifty pounds on him, but Stills was the one grinning.

'Course, Stills was also the one with a gun, and a badge.

"Do you need me to say it with smaller words, Mike Tyson? Get. Me. Your. Boss. I'm not here to measure my dick against the fuckin' help."

Fuck. He took a half-step out into the hall before his brain caught up with him, and then he stepped his ass back again. What the fuck did he think he was going to do? Stroll out there and be like, _Hey, it's cool, this place is alright, let's leave them alone?_ Maybe once that might have worked. Maybe. But it sure as hell wouldn't now.

Marcus looked pissed, and Fusco held his breath. Marcus was a big motherfucker, but Stills and the others would jump him no problem if Marcus took a swing, police subdual tactics mixed in with a good old-fashioned beating (he remembered O'Malley had usually carried a pair of brass knuckles). Christ, he owed Marcus; he couldn't just _stand here_ and let the guy get fucked up, but he was in no condition to throw down.

And he didn't want Stills to see him. Didn't want to get back on HR's radar.

He was still trying to decide what the fuck he was going to do when Marcus... stepped back and shrugged his massive shoulders. "Rick! You got visitors!"

Okay. No fight, or at least not yet. Fusco sagged against the doorframe.

Rick came out of his office, a few feet away, and looked down the hall; Fusco heard him say a soft, distinct, "Shit," before Rick pushed past him. For a second, Fusco felt a little bad for him, dickweasel that he was-- he'd fantasized earlier about Stills shaking the little turd down, but the reality didn't taste so good. The reality just made him feel guilty, like it was somehow his damn fault they were here.

\-- _was_ it his fault? Was this just a shakedown? Or had he been wrong about who'd planted that goddamn tracker? What if they were looking for him after all? They knew what his car looked like-- how many times had Stills told him to get rid of that piece-of-shit, offered to swing him an upgrade from the impounds?

He stayed in the back, his heart racing, watching from around the door's edge. Chang was pouring drinks for the cops, Rick was fake-smiling, Marcus was impersonating a small, annoyed mountain. Didn't matter: Stills held court, grinning like a wolf.

Ultimately, money changed hands: Rick passed over an envelope and Stills made a show of dumping it out onto the bar, counting it, while Rick sat there with a fixed smile. Fusco felt a queasy nostalgia watching: he _remembered_ what that was like, to be in Stills' position, how fucking invulnerable you felt, and how you were righteous doing it, because, come on, assholes like Rick were a dime-a-dozen-- just run-of-the-mill sleazebags who damn well owed this to the City's Finest, and more besides.

It was like one of those old View-Master things-- but broken, so the images didn't mesh. Past and present not quite lining up. Or maybe like seeing an old photo of yourself, long enough ago that you could wince at your fashion choices-- but it wasn't clothes, it was right-and-wrong, and he'd maybe never convinced himself that what they'd been doing was _right_ but it hadn't ever seemed all that wrong, either.

Stills took the money. Rick, Chang, and Marcus all watched as the trio left, their heads turning in sync to follow the progress of the cops. As soon as the door shut after them, Rick let out a curse and shoved Marcus in the chest, ineffectually.

"Goddamnit! What the _fuck_ do I pay you for?"

Marcus was unmoved by the flash of anger. "Not to start something with _cops_ , Rick."

"Those aren't cops," the owner snapped, knocking one of the glasses off the bar to shatter on the floor. "They're fucking vultures. Christ. The _Italians_ bled me for less."

Marcus shrugged. "And the Italians couldn't get your liquor license pulled if you pissed them off, either."

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me how far I have to bend over for these cunts," Rick retorted. He stomped down the hall, caught sight of Fusco, and glared at him. "The hell are you looking at? Go clean up the fucking glass!"

Fusco went to find a broom.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. It's been an eventful few months in my real world.

He'd planned to look at apartments on Tuesday, but the knowledge of his shit pay fucked _that_ up. Ten bucks an hour-- part-time-- barely paid his goddamn bunk at the YMCA; it definitely didn't get him into an apartment.

So instead he hit the want ads. Again. More newspaper, spread out on his knees in the common room; more staring through his glasses at tiny print spelling out the things he couldn't do, the skills he didn't have, the ways in which he was not a commodity in demand. He was sick to death of looking for work. Had he really only been out for three weeks? It seemed longer. It seemed like he had spent a solid year of his life in Help Wanted ads, to counter-weight the time he'd spent locked up. You should feel free, if you were out of prison, but Lionel felt like he was going in circles, and that the circles were getting smaller.

His ribs burned. He'd pushed it too much the night before, hauling the boxes of liquor in. He'd had the pills in his system at the time, so he hadn't felt it, not all the way, not then. But now, every breath felt like someone intentionally grinding their boot-heel against his cracked ribs. With his forehead cradled in his palm, Lionel tried to do the math on how many of the pills he had left, how many he could afford to take each day before he'd have to go cold turkey. Percocet was another thing you couldn't afford on ten bucks an hour.  
  
The cop in him, or the crook in him-- the difference was a fucking thin one, in some things-- also couldn't help but do the math on what he could get on the street, for a bottle of percs. He had twenty tabs left, give or take, pretty-high-strength dose: ten bucks a pop should be easy to find, maybe he could get fifteen with the right buyer-- an affluent Columbia student, for instance. Maybe three hundred dollars, rattling around in his pocket.  
  
He needed them too much, though. He couldn't go to work on OTC aspirin, not with his ribs and his head like this. And he needed to go to work.   
  
But he could stretch them out to every six hours instead of four, he thought.   
  
He wound up sleeping through most of Tuesday, fitful dozing on the common room's couch, until his cell phone's alarm woke him, and it was time to go back to the club.  
  
***

“So who's going to do the lawn?”  
  
“--I beg your pardon?”  
  
“You still want someone to do the lawn, don't you? And you won't let me.”

“Yes, good morning to you too. Excuse me, I'd like to reach the teakettle, please.”  
  
“You said it yourself, the house will attract attention from neighbors if we let the grounds go.”  
  
“ _Yes,_ John, I appreciate your sudden, and unprecedented, interest in the camouflage value of our lawncare. I am sure I can find somebody in town. Some young man who needs a summer job, or the like.”   
  
“In Oyster Bay? These junior WASPS don't do manual labor _,_ Harold.”  
  
“Then I imagine that I will hire a professional groundskeeping service, and chain you and Bear up inside so that they may perform their work without risk of assault. Are you planning on holding the teakettle hostage? If not, _move.”_  
  
***

Wednesday, Fusco made it to his parole officer at least, and waited a half-hour in a fuzzy, weary fog. Two cops were dealing with some business in the next cubicle over-- just patrolmen, nobody he knew-- but the sight of the uniform blues didn't help his mood any. Christ, but he'd never expected to miss being a cop so damn much.  
  
There just had never been anything else on his radar, for what he wanted to do. Never any question, no need to talk with the career counselor: Lionel Fusco was going to be a police officer.

That had been Tommy Doyle's fault: an Irish beat cop, a big man with a big white mustache, unofficial grandpa to every goddamn kid on the street. The kind of guy who could talk a Jew into a discount, or make a tired working mom, her hair stringy and mussed, two snot-nosed brats hanging at her knees, feel like Liz Taylor by means of a single compliment. And when Lionel had been twelve, Tommy Doyle had put his shmoozing skills to work: he'd rounded up every kid on the block and turned them into a baseball team-- gotten the other cops at his precinct to come out and coach, gotten all the mothers on the street to do bake sales, gotten the kids to sell goddamn lemonade... they'd raised enough money for uniforms, proper uniforms, and they'd played every damn day, even won a few times...

The next summer, Tommy Doyle had gotten knifed by a pimp in a vice bust gone wrong. Lionel had made his mother take him to the hospital. He had stood there in the room, awkward and speechless, clutching a cheap get-well-card from the bodega, and he had been scared: scared that the biggest and strongest man in his world-- a cop, a tough guy (not like his father, not his own father who always looked tired, run down, worn out)-- was just a man after all, small and old in the hospital bed.

But Tommy Doyle had smiled to see him all the same, and cracked a joke, and he'd gotten better, too. And Lionel Fusco had thought,  _I want to be like him._   
  
The desire had never gone away. High school, straight to exams, the police academy.... he'd never thought about other jobs, never considered a back-up plan. He'd just wanted to be a cop.   
  
He'd never really  _looked_ for a job, he realized dully. Sure, summer jobs as a teenager... But having gone right into the force like he had, he'd never job-hunted in earnest, not like he had to now. He wondered if he was just plain doing it wrong, that the best he could find was checking fake IDs at a titty bar. 

The parole officer asked him how it was going, back in the world. He was a guy about Lionel's age, balding, apathetic, with dull eyes that looked through him and to the clock on the wall instead. He didn't even ask about Lionel's bruises, and Lionel felt the perverse urge to shove them in his face.

_How the hell do you think it's going?_ he wanted to say.  _You see this shiner I've got? You see my split lip? Busted knuckles? Do I look to you like a man who is re-entering society in a productive fucking fashion?_

“It's going just fine,” he said.  
  
***

“It's splendid weather, John. Why don't you take Bear outside?”

“Did that already.”

“Oh. Well, then....”

“Mm.”

“...”

“...”

“...have you done your leg rehab for today?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Ah. Good then. That's good. Do you-- mmn. I suppose there's nothing much worth watching on TV.”

“No.”

“...right. Well could you--”  
  
“Could I...?”  
  
“--could you possibly find somewhere other than _directly behind my chair_ to lurk?”   
  
***

On Thursday, Fusco woke up to find Reese in his room.  
  
The night before had included his first rowdy customer, a punk with gelled hair and an attitude, who had gotten in Fusco's face and spat that old line, _I make ten times what you do, you fat little shit--_ and Fusco, who had dealt with variations on that from every jumped-up asshole in Brooklyn at some point or another, had just nodded agreeably and said, _Probably more like twenty, now let's go,_ backed up with one solid hand at the elbow. The guy had bitched and sputtered, but he'd gone. Marcus had watched the exchange, and had nodded in approval when it was done, so Fusco had been feeling okay about that, at least. Nice to do _something_ right. He'd sacked out about four a.m., telling himself the next day might be good, might be better; he could go to the DMV, go to the library.  
  
'Reese' had not been on his itinerary.  
  
He lay there in a sluggish stupor, registering Reese's presence against the room's battered desk in a blank, distant fashion. Then his brain fired the rest of the way awake: his heart went from resting-zero to freeway-80 in no time at all. He sat up, fast; his ribs screamed, so he bit down hard on his tongue to keep his mouth from screaming too, and yes, yes, that was Reese there, in his room, standing, staring down at him.   
  
“What the _fuck_?” he wheezed.  
  
“Morning,” said Reese.

Weapon-weapon-weapon; his keys were on the desk, closer to Reese than he was, and there was nothing else within reach worth a shit. Pillows, sheets, cell phone: no, no, no. Fusco's instincts ordered him to get on his fucking  _feet,_ but his ribs were still hurting like a hot poker had been shoved between them, so he stayed where he was, a little hunched, one hand pressed to his side, waiting for Reese to make the first move.  
  
Reese.... just stood there. Still had his cast, and what looked like bruising from their fight ( _good,_ thought Fusco, with dark, savage glee, good that he wasn't the only one fucked up from it), that fucking crutch tucked under one arm. Reese's eyes bored into his own for a handful of seconds-- and then Reese looked away, his soulless blue eyes wandering the small room, the cheap bunks, the dented foot locker.  
  
He  _knew_ he'd locked the door. If that goddamn junkie kid in the top bunk had left it open--  
  
\--no, it wasn't the kid's fault; he'd seen the quality of the lock when he'd come in the first night. He could have popped it himself with a goddamn credit card. Secure as a fucking whorehouse.   
  
“What,” he ground out, “the hell do you want?”  
  
Reese's eyes resettled on him slow and deliberate. “Nice place.”  
  
“Fuck you.” He didn't have to watch his words around Reese anymore, didn't have to try and play nice. That was heady like a shot of whiskey. “ _Fuck_ you, you judgmental  _prick,_ we don't all live in fucking  _mansions.”_   


Reese didn't react, other than to lift his crutch and poke at a section of wall where it was cracked paint and sagging plaster. The wall gave beneath the crutch's tip. Reese said, real calm, “That's a code violation.”

“Yeah? I'll write a letter to the city council. Goddammit, _what do you want,_ you asshole?”

“Come back to work.”

...there was a pipe gurgling, in the wall up near the ceiling, and there were feet in the hall, and there was the sound of his own still-racing heartbeat in his ears, so... so clearly, his hearing was working.   
  
“What?”  
  
Reese exhaled, and shifted position a little so the desk took more of his weight than the crutch. “I don't have all day, Lionel. This isn't complex. You're rehired.”   
  
He stared. He scrubbed at his face, still having to skirt his bruises. “Are you craz-- what am I asking, yes, yes, you're fucking crazy, you're a bag of goddamn _cats._ Jesus. Go away.”  
  
Reese frowned. Fusco pushed himself up from the bed, snatching up his phone and-- after a second's deliberation, because it would put him within arm's length of Reese-- his keys too. Fuck the guy. If he was gonna take a swing then let him. Lionel was too exhausted and pissed off to care. 

But Reese didn't swing. Fusco hesitated another second, before he deliberately gave Reese his bare back and shoulder by turning to unlock his footlocker. “I'm gonna put a shirt on, and when I turn around you better be the fuck outta here, Reese.”

It didn't work. He struggled into the cotton of his tee, still half-tensed against possible blows, but when he emerged from the shirt Reese was still there, head cocked to one side, gazing down at him like he was some sort of puzzle.   
  
“You deaf, motherfucker?” ( _God,_ it felt good to swear at Reese.) “I said get  _out.”_   
  
“Or what?” Reese asked, small, dickish smile hiding at the corners of his mouth. “You'll call the cops?”

...if his ribs didn't hurt, if his head didn't hurt, Fusco was pretty sure he would have launched himself at Reese for that. But they did hurt. And, all things told, he hadn't won last time, so there was no real reason to expect he'd do better on the rematch. He settled for glaring.

“I'll call the front desk, and _they'll_ call the cops,” he ground out.   
  
Reese gave a small shrug as if to say this was not a significant problem as far as he was concerned. Then Reese pulled the chair out from the desk, and eased himself down into it, eyes never leaving Fusco.

“Why are you being difficult, Lionel?”

He shot Reese another _look,_ loaded with disbelief like buckshot. “You _broke my ribs,”_ he snapped.  
  
Reese shrugged. “Fractured.” 

“Fucking-- okay, you _fractured_ my ribs. You got any idea how much that fucking hurts?”

A smile like a paper-cut sliced across Reese's face. “Yes.”  
  
\--Reese could go suck his boyfriend's dick. No, Reese could go suck a whole pile of dicks. Fusco ground his teeth together, his fists curling into little bombs. “You hated me from the second you laid eyes on me, and you did every goddamn thing you could to screw me over. I felt more like a fucking convict working for you than I ever did in prison. Now, I'm going through every day hopped up on Percocet because you're a grumpy, violent bitch: trying hard to get my life on track, and trying  _harder_ because of your bullshit. Why the  _hell_ would I wanna come  _back?”_

Reese gazed at the little hole that his crutch had left in the wall for about ten seconds, considering, and then he glanced back and said, “Double your pay?”

  
...oh, _fuck_ him.

***

It was a real long drive back out to Oyster Bay, in his shitty car, with Reese in the passenger seat.

Reese had just led the way out to his car, and Fusco had followed, dragged along in his wake the way trash accumulated around a floater. He still hadn't really gotten it, though, not even when Reese gestured at his car with the crutch, and arched a brow.   
  
“What?”

“I took a taxi, Lionel,” Reese had said, patient as death. “You'll need to drive.”

So. So he was driving, maybe still waking up-- what fucking _time_ was it, God-- the dashboard clock said nine-thirty, so, alright, at least he'd gotten some sleep, but he hadn't gotten a shower or a shave or breakfast, and Reese was in his passenger seat, in an inversion of his ride into the city with Mr. Finch. Reese looked too pleased with himself.

'Course, Fusco figured that any amount of 'pleased' would probably look too pleased, on Reese's asshole face.

  
“I have another job now,” he growled at Reese, because, dammit, he wasn't that desperate. Okay, he was. He definitely was, and at _twice the pay,_ holy shit, that was-- he couldn't pass that up, he couldn't afford to, but-- but fucking Christ, Reese didn't need to know that.   
  
“Oh?”

“Yeah. So let's just get that straight, okay? I don't need this. I don't need you guys. You fuck with me again, I'm out.”

Reese smiled, his eyes half-closed against the morning sunlight coming through the dusty windshield. “Same... line of work?” he drawled.

Huh? “No.” Fusco shifted in his seat with a grimace. Aw-- aw _shit,_ he'd forgotten his Percocet. Oh, today was gonna suck... No, no, it'd be fine, he'd get through it by telling himself how eighty dollars an hour was more than he had _ever made before,_ even as a _cop,_ eighty an hour, times eight, times five, that was-- Jesus Christ, that was a six-figure income. Jesus _Christ._

Fuck an apartment. He could save towards a house, he could think about a new car, he--

“So doing what, then?” Reese's voice cut across the numb floaty feeling that was starting to kick in. He looked sidelong at him.

“What do you care?”

Reese shrugged, and tried to lean back in the seat, extend his legs fully. That didn't work too well in Fusco's car. “Just making conversation, Lionel,” he said, all syrup-sweet.

“It ain't your _business_.”

Reese's eyelids fluttered, like a hunting cat's. “If you do something criminal, it _will_ be my business.”

“Oh, Jesus, you just don't let it go, do you? Fine, fuck it, fuck you, I'm bouncing at a titty bar, okay? Is that good enough for you? Sorry it's not building hospitals for fucking _orphans_ or something, I couldn't pass the background check for that either,” he half-yelled, his voice too loud in the small car. He wanted to say more-- oh Jesus did he have some words saved up for Reese, but--  
  
But if he was doing this again, if, then goddammit, he had to play nice again. (Eighty dollars an hour. Eighty dollars an hour. Come on, he could keep his fucking mouth shut for eighty dollars an hour--)  
  
Reese just seemed amused, though. “You should do something about your temper, Lionel,” he said, and he closed his eyes, and sank down into the vinyl of the seat like he was settling into deep water.  
  
Fusco shut his mouth and drove. 


	32. Chapter 32

Bear was waiting for them, inside the fence, and the dog loped next to the car all the way to the house. Fusco didn't fool himself that the dog was happy to see _him._ Sure enough, when Reese squeezed out of the Toyota, the dog was all over him, without so much as a tail wag in Lionel's direction.

“That how it is, huh,” he muttered under his breath at the mutt, as he made his own careful exit. “See if I buy _you_ special treats again.”

Reese scratched Bear behind the ears; Fusco took the moment to look around him. Lawn looked okay-- a little ragged, but okay. Six days was enough for the flowerbeds to start sprouting weeds, though.  
  
Reese crutched his way to the door with Bear in tow. Fusco called to the back of his head, “I'll just start out here, then, yeah?” and Reese didn't answer other than a one-handed wave that probably meant _Sure, whatever._

Fine. Lionel stood there a moment, taking careful, testing breaths of the clean suburban air-- easy, easy, if he breathed shallow it was okay-- and then he headed to get the gardening gloves.

A half-hour later he wobbled inside, feeling less than great. Crouching by flowerbeds didn't seem like it should be that hard, but god _damn,_ his ribs. The pain was a background thing-- right up until it wasn't: until he forgot himself and took a big breath, or leaned forward, or twisted his torso. Then it went for his throat like a feral dog. Several times he'd had to stop, wheezing and sweating, his breath thin and his fingertips dug down into the flowerbed soil as he rode out the white waves of pain. The first three times, he'd repeated the mantra, _eighty dollars, eighty dollars, eighty dollars--_ but when the fourth time hit, he'd surrendered.

There had to be aspirin or something inside the house. Finch's first aid kit had painkillers. Yeah.

His inability to keep going stung-- it was just _pain_ for Chrissake, he needed to suck it up and do the job, but... but sometimes you couldn't. Sometimes your body said _fuck you, I quit._ Then you had to at least give it a break, a pill, a peace offering. So Lionel staggered into the utility room, and there he did nothing more but stand still, for a full minute or two. Breathing. Careful. In, out, easy...

Something was bothering him. Some _things_ , even. He wished he could think straight, because he felt that they were big things, important things. The detective-itch was back. There were questions, and they needed answers; they were _there,_ just past the tip of his conscious brain-- but it hurt to breathe, and he hadn't had breakfast, and, and, and...

He entered the kitchen. Reese was camped out with the TV again and didn't even look at him. Fusco tried to remember where Finch had gotten the kit from, last time (after the fight--); had he gone all the way to the master bedroom, or just that little bathroom right off the foyer? He'd check there first.

The house AC tickled cold on the back of his neck, his ears. It seemed really loud. Maybe that was his own pulse. Lionel kept one hand on the wall for balance as he went, his fingers drifting beneath artwork, paintings, mirrors. All the rich stuff. All the expensive, rich...

...who paid... who was willing to pay... eighty dollars an hour for a fucking... gardener?

\--there it was, one of the questions chewing at him like a rat in the walls. He didn't want to think about it, because-- because he wanted the money to be real, _don't look a gift horse..._ , right, right, so what did it _matter_ if they wanted to pay him that much, that was _their_ problem, just _take_ it and--  
  
He got the bathroom medicine cabinet open. There was a line of little bottles, the text on them small and fuzzy and swimming. Fusco fumbled at his shirt collar, and then at his pockets, until he registered he must have left his glasses at Y too. Fusco sighed, long and wet, and he drooped forward until his forehead touched the cool glass of the mirror.  
  
(...but Mr. Finch was Rich. Yes. Maybe he was just _so_ rich that it didn't _matter,_ that forty bucks, or eighty, meant the same damn thing--)

\--no, nobody was that rich. Rich people _got_ rich because they didn't waste money. Mr. Finch was rich, but he wasn't a fool, and he wasn't going to pay someone a fuckin' six-figure income to, to weed his... _begonias_. (He never had figured out which flowers were the goddamn begonias, had he?)

A door shut in the hall. Fusco wrenched himself back to standing. It was the wrong direction for Reese, and the step he could hear was Finch's lopsided gait.

A dozen seconds later, Mr. Finch shuffled past the bathroom's open door. He was wearing a tartan bathrobe and a pair of raggy, broke-in slippers; he didn't have his glasses on; and his hair was a wispy tangle. He looked like... well, Fusco couldn't say exactly; maybe one of those people in a Nyquil commercial, but less-- less... _Just-So_ than he usually did.

Mr. Finch walked past, and then he stopped. Fusco counted out three breaths before Finch appeared back in the door, turned at the waist to face him, and blinked like a half-blind turtle without his glasses.

“Uh, morning,” Fusco said, and he grabbed at the nearest bottle and held it up as an excuse. “I was just-- gonna take some aspirin and get back to work.”  
  
Finch didn't say anything, but his brows slowly climbed upward.  
  
Lionel cleared his throat. “I forgot my pills back at the-- at home.”  
  
Finch rubbed at his face, and still didn't say anything; Lionel put the bottle back. “Guess I should have asked first. So, you want some breakfast? Eggs and toast maybe, or--”  
  
Finch raised a hand _(stop talking)_ ; Fusco's mouth clicked shut. He watched as Finch pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket, put them on. Finch's watery blue eyes sharpened right up, and Fusco shifted his weight, foot to foot: he knew what he looked like, unshaven and unshowered, his face yellow with fading bruises: yeah, he was a prize and a half, wasn't he?

“I know what you gotta be thinking,” he blurted after seconds of silent scrutiny. “You're thinking this wasn't a great idea after all, but--”  
  
“No,” Finch said, and Lionel shut his mouth again. “I'm actually wondering what on earth you're doing here.”

The bathroom lurched around Fusco. What?  
  
“...what do you mean, what am I doing here?” he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his tone.

Finch's head tipped to one side. “Well, I do recall terminating your employment, Mr. Fusco.”  
  
His face went numb. “But-- but Reese said--”  
  
...son of a bitch, no. Reese had never said that _Finch_ had sent him. Motherfucker, that asshole had just let him _assume--_  
  
Finch's brows arched higher, ever-so-cool. “Reese said...?”

Fucking Christ. This was all... nothing more than Reese fucking with him some more, wasn't it? A goddamn set-up. Wake him up, scare him, get him out here with the promise of cash, goddammit, of _course_ Reese had offered him eighty-dollars-an-hour-- and dumbass that he was, he'd actually _believed_ him.

He'd not thought, _hey, maybe Reese is Satan's own bloodhound and has gotten it in his head to fuck with me until I die._ He'd not considered, _maybe Reese is a bored, crazy dickhead playing a game with me to get his kicks._

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Misunderstanding, look, I, I'll just go--”  
  
He lurched towards the doorway, but Finch didn't move, and he couldn't just shove past the guy. He had a vague flashback of Bear trapping him in the utility room, kinda like this.  
  
“John,” Mr. Finch called into the other end of the house, and Fusco swore in the privacy of his own throbbing head. “John, would you come here, please?”  
  
Fusco stuck a hand on the counter, for balance, because the dizziness was still right there behind his eyes. He stared down at his sneakers, still dirty from the weeding. For fuck's sake, he really didn't want to see Reese laughing at him.

Could hear him coming, though, crutch-step-crutch-step, and stop. Reese's voice said, “Yes?”

“John,” said Harold Finch, very calm, “do you know anything about why Mr. Fusco is here today?” Fusco closed his eyes, because that _bastard_ was gonna say something like, _no idea, maybe he broke back in to steal from us,_ or--  
  
“I rehired him.”

What?  
  
His head snapped up (ow. ow. His neck, throbbing leftover pains from the fight--) and he gaped at Reese, who was standing there with his crutch, cool as a lifer. Bear was right there at his side, tail thumping on the hardwood floor; Mr. Finch's face kinda looked how Fusco felt.  
  
“I-- what?” said Finch.

Reese shrugged. “You like his cooking.”  
  
Mr. Finch opened his mouth... and shut his mouth. He looked over at Lionel, who was still stuck in the same damn slack-jawed position he'd been in ten seconds ago-- if Finch was looking for an explanation, he really wasn't gonna find it with him-- and then he looked back at Reese. “John, that's not... really... relevant.”

Reese shrugged again. His gaze was on his boyfriend, his eyes half-lidded and heavy. “You like him being here.”

Finch took a deep breath, then plucked his glasses off and kneaded his forehead with his fingertips. For a few seconds he didn't say anything more. Then, he swiveled Lionel's direction with the Nice Guy Smile in place, plastic and practiced. “Lionel, excuse us a moment. John, may I talk to you privately?”

Reese followed Finch into his office on the opposite side of the hall (crutch, crutch). The door shut behind them with a tiny click, and Fusco felt the breath leak from him like air from a slashed tire.

Christ, what _was_ this? He was what, some sorta football in their screwy relationship now? Fusco heard a tired, whining noise that he thought was the dog for a second, then he realized he'd made it himself. Lionel eased himself down to sit on the toilet lid, and he rested his arm on the marble counter, and then he put his forehead on his arm and closed his eyes. Fuck it.  
  
Should never have so much as let Reese start talking, back at the YMCA. Should have just left. Shit, he should be leaving right now. It wasn't like Finch was actually gonna _pay_ him what Reese had promised-- assuming Finch wanted him back at all. Big assumption. He remembered how pissed the guy had been for the drive back to the city.  
  
He couldn't hear their voices. He thought about trying to slip closer and eavesdrop, and then he dismissed that thought. The way his luck was running, Reese would open the damned door and find him there. Anyway, he didn't want to move.

But he did: he pulled himself back to his feet with one hand on the counter, and he went back to the medicine cabinet, lifting each pill bottle close to his face, one after the other. But his head hurt, and the little labels swum in a wash of color, this one blue-yellow, this one white-red... he put them back and stared at himself in the mirror instead.

The bruises were healing, but Tina was still putting make-up on him every night before work, and without it he still looked like hell.  
  
Okay, so, as a hypothetical: if Finch was willing to give him another shot, at the original pay, would he still be down for that? He stared at his reflection for about two seconds before he snorted at himself.  
  
“Christ, of course you would, you dumb shit,” he muttered. Forty dollars was forty dollars. It was good money that he was in no position to turn down. It had been good enough for him when Reese was just being a background asshole. And now, Reese was...  
  
...Reese had-- it had been _Reese's_ idea to get him back. That had to count for something, right?  
  
Maybe it just meant Reese wanted to have a punching bag around, he thought wearily. What was the going rate for getting yourself beat to shit once a week?

“Worse ways to make a living,” he reminded himself, because, yeah, there were. Goddammit.

When Finch and Reese emerged from their office, he was in the salon, working on the shelves full of fans and crystal birds and all the other tchochtke crap Finch had, because a week had been long enough for all of that to get dusty, too, and he figured maybe it was a few more brownie points.

“...oh, stop that, please,” said Finch's voice wearily from behind him. Fusco winced but put the duster down.  
  
“You shouldn't even _be here,”_ Finch continued, and he swallowed and turned around to face the music, half-thought-out excuses living and dying on his tongue. _It's all Reese's fault,_ he felt like protesting, but hell, he still wasn't a rat.

Finch came over and took the duster. “Go lie down.”

What?

He stood there, rooted and wordless, blank as a bare cell wall. Finch rubbed at his own face-- this close, Fusco could see he was still whiskery, hadn't had his morning shave-- and then he exhaled. “Lionel. Your ribs were fractured less than a week ago. You shouldn't be doing manual labor. Just... go lie down, for God's sake. The hearth room--”  
  
Reese crutched past, headed back to the hearth room.

“....or here,” Finch amended with a wave of his hand at the salon's immaculate floral-print couches. “Did you get any of the pills?”  
  
“Uh. No.”  
  
Finch closed his eyes; Fusco had the impression he was counting to ten. “Alright. I'll fetch them. Please just sit down and stop-- _trying.”_  
  
He sat. He didn't really know what else to do. He rubbed his palms on his knees and he listened to the TV from the next room over, and he thought about the weeding dirt on his clothes and the sweat and the stink getting into Finch's furniture. Finch wasn't saying get out, but he wasn't saying y _ou can come back_ either, so what the actual fuck?  
  
Mr. Finch came back with a glass of water and two white pills. He took them and he swallowed them, because Finch's face didn't say he'd welcome any arguments on it.  They were bitter going down, even with the water.

Finch stood there a few seconds, and then he gingerly sat down, in his plaid bathrobe, next to him.

“Do you actually want to resume working for us?” Mr. Finch sighed.  
  
Fusco fiddled with the water glass, staring down at the rug beneath their feet. His sneakers were scuffed and dirty from the garden. Finch's slippers looked like the dog had gotten hold of them at some point, and worn-in aside from that. They were the first thing he'd ever seen Finch wearing that didn't look like it cost some money.

For the most part, Finch had been pretty nice to him, Fusco thought. Hell. With the exception of, say, Marcus... Finch had probably been nicer to him than anyone in a long, long time. Sure, he maybe hadn't appreciated getting forced to go the clinic at the time, but, fuck, the guy had paid for his medical care and he sure hadn't actually needed to do that. He tried to imagine HR doing something comparable: firing you then making sure you got safely home. Ha. Yeah. No. Finch was-- Finch made you want to not let him down.

And Reese was... Reese. A dick. But--

...he tried to imagine what prison might have been like, if he hadn't thrown himself at every work shift that posted. He had desperately needed to stay busy: the worst part of prison had not been the guards, nor other inmates' snide comments and threats, nor even Carl. The worst part had been nights when Carl left him alone and he couldn't sleep, couldn't do nothing but pace and think and pace and think and measure the cell with his footsteps, reflect on having fucked up, think about Lee, wait for dawn.

A mansion was a _lot_ nicer than a prison cell. On that score, it was hard to pity Reese. But shit, he could maybe wrap his brain a little around Reese's particular brand of crazy.  
  
All of that aside: he liked the work. Hell, half of it wasn't even work: the cooking, the running errands into town? That stuff was fine. And the other parts, the mowing and weeding and house-cleaning: there was something satisfying about doing it; like maybe if he got everything here in the big house put right in its place, maybe the rest of his life would follow suit. Everything clean. No blood on it. That'd be nice.

He'd felt _good,_ each night when he'd driven back to the city.

“Yeah,” he said, his tongue feeling fat in his mouth. “Yeah, I want to.”

Finch let out a sigh, not like a frustrated-kinda-sigh, just a slow breath, like the world was heavy. “Very well. But-- may I remind you-- _your ribs are fractured._ You should not be working, Lionel.”

There was a lot of shit he could say to that, but Fusco just rubbed at his knees with both palms. “It was a week ago. I'm good.”

“Six days.”

“What I said. Look, no offense, but-- my rent doesn't stop needing to be paid just because I'm bruised up, you know? I don't--” there were more angry words building up behind the dam of his teeth and tongue ( _I'm not rich, goddammit, I CAN'T take a week off)_, but no, he bit them back. Keep it calm, keep it friendly, joke a little. “I don't get sick days, if you follow me.” 

Finch frowned, and rubbed at the palm of his left hand with the finger and thumb of his right. Fusco wondered momentarily if he had carpal tunnel from the office work, or arthritis. “I... suppose I grasp your difficulty,” he said, and, no, no he didn't, there was no way a man like Finch _got what it was,_ to come out of prison with any damn thing you owned that had been worth money already liquidated, to pay for reparations and child support, with nothing but a few clothes on your back and with bills that resumed piling up immediately, bills that had never even stopped piling up-- when you had a dying, p.o.s. car and no reserves, no support, no money tucked away for a rainy day, when you had a junkie roommate and you had to seriously consider selling your pain medications for cash-- _no, Finch did not get it._  
  
He said none of that. Finch kept speaking. “...perhaps we might be able to consider some sort of compromise, light-duty or something. Cooking, if it's not too strenuous, and other things that won't take a high physical toll on you, until your ribs heal more fully.”  
  
Fusco hesitated, torn between pride, and the need for the job, and the pain in his ribs. “...yeah,” he said cautiously. “Yeah, that... that might work.” Hell, even if he worked two hours a day for them, at the old wage, that paid for his bunk and a meal, at least. It would keep him from _losing_ money.  
  
“Well, then,” Finch said. 

Fusco dared a sidelong glance at him. Finch sounded... Finch sounded like someone who wanted to go back to bed, and he felt briefly guilty about complicating the guy's morning like this, but it was brief, because from what he'd seen of them the first two weeks Finch could and did sleep in as late as he felt like, he had that luxury.  
  
But there were dark bags under Mr. Finch's eyes, he observed. He _did_ look tired. Maybe that was because he wasn't as put together as normal, had his morning stubble and all, but, no, it went deeper than that. Finch wasn't looking back at him, but gazing off at the far wall of the sa- _lon,_ and still rubbing absently at his hand.  
  
“You want me to make you some tea?” he offered.  
  
Mr. Finch turned to face him in the way he had, not with his head but his whole upper body, and his thin brows shot up. Then he laughed, a little. “That's-- no, you should be resting. Let the Advil kick in. We'll see how you're feeling by lunchtime.”  
  
He supposed he ought to argue that, but, hell, continuing to sit here and not having to move for the immediate future sounded really good. “Okay.”

Finch nodded, and a few more seconds went by before he pushed himself up, gingerly. He stood there a second, staring down at Lionel like he had more he was gonna say, but the seconds passed and he just turned and went for the kitchen with his old-man limp, shuff shuff. He heard the sounds of a cupboard opened, Finch putting the teakettle on, over the soft noises of the TV from the other room.   
  
Fusco sat there a while, leaning back real careful into the couch cushions. They were stiff, like furniture in a show room. Finch and Reese must never use them, he thought. Like the big kitchen and the big yard and the sports car and the whole damn second floor. All this empty... stuff. A big show-house with no... no audience.  
  
He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand, and then he carefully toed out of his sneakers and just as carefully eased himself down on the too-firm couch cushions. Just a little nap, and he'd be fine, he thought. He'd be good to go. 

Back in black.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the show lives and so do I

He had weird dreams. He was back in Block B at Fishkill, and someone was looking for him: he was hiding, moving from cell to cell, down the stairs, trying not to be spotted-- who was it? One of Carl's guys? Guards? Simmons? And then he heard the bark of a dog. They'd let out the dogs.

So he ran. The laundry room, the cafeteria-- could he hide, there? Could he get away? He climbed a chain link fence, he opened a door, stairs, up, down-- he ran, and then when he couldn't run anymore he crawled under a bunk and he hid. He waited with his heart banging in his chest, his throat hurting, and the dog came. With nails clicking on the floor, and its head dropped low, it breathed on him, hot, hot stinking dog breath, with its mouth open and its teeth white and sharp...

_(bear, leave him alone-- bear-- hier, bear--)_

And then he wasn't there, it was before prison, the good old days, running with the boys, with Stills and O'Malley and Terney and all the other guys from back then. A memory, maybe: a firefight with some Trinitarios, years ago, muzzle flash and ringing ears and bullets whistling by but at the end they'd come through, the City's Finest, and Stills had stood by a table where the shits had been bagging coke, a table piled with cash, and Stills had  _laughed_ and thrown a handful of bills at him and grinned, reckless and bright-eyed and breathing hard, and said,  _Okay, we seriously need to find some bitches after this--_

The heat of a driveway under his back, and hands like fire around his throat, and crazy bright-eyes above him now, not Stills' eyes, but--

He woke gasping for air, sweaty, one hand raised to punch but there was nobody there.

Fusco groaned as his ribs protested his current rapid breathing. Sunlight reflected off the patio, through the French doors, and striped the salon ceiling with bars of light that swam in his vision. Very carefully, he worked himself into a sitting position and rubbed at his face. Stupid dreams. Crazy dreams.

No TV noise. The house was real quiet, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. He squinted at his watch: a little past two. Crap, he'd slept through lunch. Fusco dragged himself upright and went looking for his employers-- glancing out to the backyard first, in case Reese was throwing the ball for Bear (no); then to Finch's office, where the door was shut and his knock got no answer, then their bedroom door where it was the same thing. He'd ruled out the hearth room because of the silence... but that was where they ended up being, the both of them, and the dog, everyone asleep.

He stood there a moment, half in the doorway. Mr. Finch was sitting stiffly vertical on the couch, his head tipped back some and his mouth slack. Snoring a little. Glasses halfway down his beaky nose. The tartan bathrobe was gone: Finch was in trousers and a dark red sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Reese was on his back, so tall his feet had to rest on the couch armrest, the cast-leg and the other one, and his head was in Finch's lap. Finch had one hand in Reese's hair, his fingers threaded into the short salt-and-pepper strands, and the other resting on Reese's chest. Reese's face was calm and easy, untroubled.

He didn't want to see this.

He could take the gay shit, could totally not care about the idea of them kissing or fucking or what _ever,_ because guys fucked, so what, he didn't give a damn, but _this--_ the way they, the way that they just--

He must have moved or something, because Bear (sprawled on the floor, at Finch's feet) twitched in response. One brown doggy eye rolled his direction, and the dog whuffed a little, thumped his tail on the floor. Reese stirred but didn't wake up-- just sighed, real soft, and turned his face further into Finch's leg. Finch mumbled something and patted at Reese's chest.

He swore they were fucking _breathing_ in sync. For Chrissake.  
  
Fusco took a step back, and another one: Bear whined in disappointment and settled back down, head on his paws. He'd get a start on dinner, Fusco thought. Something with a lot banging pots and pans, so that they'd wake up on their own, so that he didn't have to clear his goddamn throat or touch one of them on the shoulder or anything like that. Chicken, there might still be some frozen chicken, there was definitely still rice, he...

...he stopped, glancing back because, despite himself and despite not really wanting to see them like this, something had caught at his eye, his brain. Finch's exposed wrist.

Bruises. Kind of bruises he'd seen too often not to recognize them: finger-marks, leaving pinpoint smudges on pasty skin.

The breath left him in a short, flat exhale. Fusco gripped the doorjamb, staring, and then his eyes jagged down to Reese's face, half-expecting Reese to be awake now, gazing back at him, but no, the guy was still lying there peaceful as a goddamn baby.  
  
No way, he thought numbly. He'd seen DV time and again in his career and you learned what the marks were-- not the physical ones, not just that, but the other shit, the way the woman would get real soft and quiet when her guy was around, would sit still and contained, not put a foot wrong, in case she pissed him off...  
  
He'd never gotten any of that off Finch. No way. If anything, he had bet on _Finch_ being the one in charge of their relationship, but--  
  
\--but Reese (said a part of his brain, cold and impersonal from years of working a beat and working cases) was a violent guy, an angry guy, a not-in-the-best-mental-place guy. Reese had really desperately wanted to beat the shit out of somebody, when they'd thrown down. Was it that hard to imagine, that maybe that temper turned Finch's way sometime?

...it was. It was hard to imagine that, looking at them they way they were in this moment, fucking tangled up in one another like bread and butter. It was hard to imagine Reese hurting his prissy, crippled, nice-guy boyfriend, when he'd seen the way Reese would look at him-- when he'd been able to use the idea of _Harold's unhappiness_ as a weapon to make Reese cooperate.

But you could love somebody and still hurt them. Fusco knew about that.

He rubbed at the side of his face that wasn't bruised up, and he let out a slow breath. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen.

***

Finch came out first, looking sleepy and rumpled--- about time, Fusco wasn't sure he could drop this pan loudly a fourth time-- and he looked over. “Hey, chicken sound alright for lunch? I know it's a little late, but...”

Finch gave him a muzzy blink and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Oh. Yes. That sounds fine, thank you.” 

Finch was back to his helplessly-polite nebbish mode; he was pretty easy to manage like that, Fusco had noted. “Alright. Gimme fifteen, we'll be good to go.”

Mr. Finch rubbed at his forehead and then finger-combed his spiky hair. “Certainly. We'll just...” He gestured vaguely down the hall to the bedroom (or the bathroom, more likely) and ambled that way, shuff shuff. Reese followed him, with his crutch, giving Fusco a long unreadable look as he passed.

Unreadable was better than hostile. If they were at a truce, Fusco could live with that. He returned his attention to the oil heating in the pan.

He'd watch, he decided. Keep an eye out for-- things. Signs that things weren't okay. He'd be in a position to notice stuff, and--

\--and do _what?_ he snapped at himself. Call the fucking _cops?_ Confront Reese? Have a talk with Mr. Finch about how he didn't need to put up with this, and here's the number of a shelter, Mr. Millionaire? The increasing absurdity of these ideas made him bark a short laugh down at the pan full of oil.

Christ on a cracker. Fusco rubbed at his the side of his head again, then reached for the chicken.

He still couldn't really imagine Reese hitting his gimpy boyfriend, but-- but goddammit, the bruises. How else did a nerdy, middle-aged, sweater-vest-wearing queen get himself banged up?

\--yeah, okay, there was one way, but if these two were into the kinky shit then wow did he not want to know about _that._

It didn't add up, however you sliced it. Fusco thought that a whole lot of things didn't _add up,_ in the Mr. Finch and Mr. Reese household, with the gun-toting broads, with all of it... things that didn't _fit_ , like John Reese, who was a violent, angry, stir-crazy motherfucker, and who fit in to this big house, into this land of rich WASPs and manicured lawns, about as well as _he_ did. And there was Finch, and Finch fit in alright, Finch fit into the money and the lifestyle like a hand in a glove, but-- but sometimes Finch got... sharp. Like when Finch had bullied him to the clinic. Like when Finch had laid down the law in the car, on that long-ass drive back to the city. Those goddamn sweater-vests hid an _edge,_ made out of steel.

Maybe it was that same edge that made it so hard to believe John smacked his boyfriend around, Fusco mused as the chicken hissed and popped in the pan. He wasn't sure he could see Mr. Finch putting up with that shit.

Fusco exhaled. Some shit was screwy, that was all he knew-- but he knew it with every instinct he'd ever had as a cop.

So he'd watch, he decided. One thing at a time. And whatever was going on, well... he'd just... figure something out when he got there. Sure.

If he'd been any good at long-term planning, Fusco thought darkly, as he flipped the chicken breast over, then he damn well wouldn't have wound up in prison in the first place.

***

Finch was chipper at lunch, bright and polite again. Fusco privately thought he still looked tired, beneath it all. And Reese... was quiet, but the tension wasn't comparable to the last meal they'd had at this table. Reese just bent his head to his food and ate, grunted softly if Finch tried to drag him into the conversation, and so it wound up being him and Finch talking, though Fusco would have loved to have just followed Reese's example had that been an option.

He felt like it was an effort for Finch to do it too, to talk and talk, and he wistfully considered the three of them just _all_ shutting up, all being mini-Reeses for a nice quiet dinner. But Finch wouldn't, so instead, he answered questions, he went along with Finch's relentless chatter.

“--no weeding until those ribs heal, I should think. As for the lawn itself...”

“I can mow the lawn,” Fusco interjected. “It's just sitting on the mower. It's not like I'm really moving for that. No worse than driving a car.”

Finch pursed his mouth, small and disapproving. “A considerably bumpier ride, though.”

Fusco bit back on a tired sigh. “How about I try it and see how bad it is?”

Mr. Finch hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose. And you're sure cooking isn't a problem?”

He had thought about that, and no, it wasn't, as long as he didn't have to bend over. So he'd avoid using the oven for a bit, stick to the stovetop. “It's fine.”

The expression on Finch's face didn't scream 'convinced,' so Fusco leaned back in his chair, hands on the table's edge. (Reese was doggedly cutting his chicken breast into tiny bites, on the other side of the table.) “Look,” he said, “how about just a standing 'you let me do what I can, and I stop if it hurts too much'? Trust my judgment on it?”

Finch _snorted,_ the jerk. “No offense, Lionel, but it's precisely that which is my concern. You _were_ trying to weed with cracked ribs, so my estimation of your judgment is... that you haven't got any, at least when it comes to your own health.”

...yeah, well... Fusco grimaced. “I'll take it easy. I mean, if I've got direct orders not to push it, I won't.”

“Mmm.” Finch stabbed at a bite of his lunch with the fork with some emphasis. He flicked a glance over at his boyfriend, but John was gazing down into his plate and eating in a placid fashion.

“Did you wind up getting to see your son?” Finch asked suddenly, and Fusco jerked upright. “You'd said he was at camp?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Lionel said, and cleared his throat. “He's done now, we, we got together. Had a nice family dinner. He's doing good.”

Finch offered a polite smile, and Fusco supposed there was something in there about 'what did your son think of you looking like a beaten egg,' but Finch only said, “Well, I'm sure that was nice,” and he nodded because what the hell else there was to say, yeah, it was nice, it was great, it wasn't Finch's business. Not that he minded talking about his son, but-- hell, he didn't know, he just wanted... things were too raw, yet. It was too soon to be talking about his kid with the guy whose boyfriend had cracked his ribs.

Reese pushed his empty plate a few inches away and leaned slowly back in his chair, eyes closed. For a second Fusco felt a flicker of smugness-- good meal, he'd gotten Reese to hit a food coma-- but then he registered that Reese looked more pained than contented, tension lines around his eyes. Mr. Finch followed the direction of Lionel's gaze, and concern flashed across his features like an APB: the contrast was almost funny, Fusco thought, between the polite motherly concern Finch had thrown at him thirty seconds gone, and this look, so much more deeply bothered.

“John?” Mr. Finch said, softly, and Reese's eyes fluttered open, slid towards his boyfriend in slow underwater fashion. Lionel watched as Finch reached across the table to touch at Reese's hand.

He didn't really want to see them like this, but at the same time, he'd resolved to keep his eyes open. So Fusco cleared his throat and stood to start grabbing the plates, but he watched, through his eyelashes: Finch leaned in and murmured to Reese, “Your head?” and Reese gave a tiny jerk of his chin, yes, with irritation and something deeper than that twisting his mouth, and Finch's stiff shoulders rose up a little with tension, but he patted Reese's hand and said, “Let's get you lying down, then.” And the displeasure grew on Reese's face, all the tiny wrinkles on his aging-twink face deepening, tightening-- then Reese's eyes slid shut again, surrender, resignation, the way he'd been in the garage when Fusco had busted out Finch's name, the threat of Finch.

“Thank you for the lunch,” Finch said, distracted and perfunctory, and Fusco nodded, and took the plates into the kitchen while Finch walked Reese down the hall, slow, both of them slow, shuff shuff crutch.

_***_

He'd finished the dishes (they had a dishwasher but there weren't so many to do, and it kept his hands busy) and was putting the last of them away again when Finch reappeared, in the kitchen's doorway, looking wrung out and old and clutching his checkbook.

“He okay?” Fusco asked, brusquer than he meant to, wishing he hadn't the instant the words left his mouth. He was the guy who'd gone and cracked Reese's skull; it wasn't a politic question.

But Finch just looked at him from across a big distance, then focused on him with some effort. “Not really.”

Yeah, should _not_ have asked. Fusco cleared his throat and shut the cabinet on its neat rows of plates and glasses. “I'm sorry.”

Finch waved a pale hand and limped to the island counter, patting absently at his own chest for a pen that wasn't there. “It isn't your fault,” he sighed.

“...no?” Fusco said warily.

Mr. Finch's hand kept moving, and then stopped as Finch registered he wasn't wearing a suit, didn't have a breast pocket and a pen there. The man sighed and yanked open the kitchen's junk drawer instead. “Hmnn?”

Fusco shifted his weight foot-to-foot, caught in the unpleasant space between guilt and someone else's displeasure. “It kind of is my fault, though.”

Again it looked like it took some effort for Finch to really focus on him, but it settled sharp and not-entirely-friendly. Finch sucked on his teeth a moment then looked back down into the drawer.

“I suppose your altercation didn't help anything, no. But John has some pre-existing health issues.”

He mulled that over. Words from that car ride came back to him, _a man with prior head trauma..._ like he needed to feel worse about that fight, he thought grumpily, miserably. “I wouldn't have fought him like I did if I'd known about that,” he said, wondering if it was actually true, if he'd have given a shit in the heat of the fight. Probably not.

Finch gave him a cool gaze from the depths of the junk drawer. “No? Yet the cast wasn't an impediment...?”

He grimaced, unable to really answer that. “I'm sorry.”

“So you've mentioned,” Finch said with a little finalizing note to it, and found a pen. “There's no point in rehashing it.” He started writing the check, and Fusco jammed his hands into his pockets and closed his mouth-- at least until he noticed the amount on the check.  
  
“Uh. I didn't really work that much today,” he said, while his brain screamed at him to shut the _fuck_ up. “Maybe two, three hours, max.”

“John said the two of you had negotiated a pay raise.”

Fusco blinked. “I... I don't...” _Take it, take it, you stupid shithead--_ “I don't, uh-- you weren't the one who agreed to that.”

Finch tilted his head to one side, studying him like a blood-drop on a slide. “Nevertheless.”

God, what the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just _take_ it? “What I'm doing isn't worth eighty bucks an hour,” he said, because he was a shithead, because he just couldn't help but look for ways to fuck it for himself, apparently--

Finch made a noise: aggrieved, impatient. “Lionel, I don't want to rewrite the damned check. We'll argue about exact financial terms tomorrow, will that be sufficient?”

His mouth felt dry and his cheeks burned. He jerked a nod. Finch signed the thing with an emphatic scrawl. Eager to get rid of him for the day. Couldn't blame him, he guessed.

So the smart thing would have been just to go, take the hint and scram, but--

“Look,” he said, stiff and fumbling, as he tucked the check away in his wallet, “--are _you_ okay?”

Mr. Finch gave him a look that was probably best classed as bare shock, for two or three seconds before it got covered up in something that was only wry and weary. “Do I look that poorly?”

He shrugged. “You look tired.”

“I am. It's been,” Finch dropped the pen back in the drawer, pushed it shut with some feeling, “a difficult week at work.”

“Ah. Well. Sorry.”

Finch found a half-smile. “It isn't your fault. And _that_ one, at least, really is not. Thank you for the sentiment all the same, and please drive safely on your way back to the city. You needn't come out so early tomorrow-- say, noon?”

That, he could take without arguing-- the sleep would be more than welcome. “Yeah. Okay. Uh, get some rest.”

“I'll try,” said Mr. Finch, and politely, inexorably, ushered him out the door and into the baking afternoon heat.


	34. Chapter 34

He got back to the city in time to shower, shave, and pop a Percocet before heading to the club. Tina said his bruises were healing-but-not-quite-there-yet.

Through her ministrations, he made a list, in his head:

Evidence docket, #1: Reese was a seriously _trained_ motherfucker. Mr. Finch had said ex-Army, but that fight they'd had: you didn't come out of boot camp like that, or Fusco figured they should probably have the whole fuckin' Middle East subdued by now. Fusco wasn't Muhammad Ali but he wasn't a pushover either, and Reese-- Reese, with a broken _leg_ , a guy on a _crutch_ \-- had held his own, would have done worse if Finch hadn't intervened. So yeah. Reese was more than just your average jarhead. What, then?

Evidence docket, #2: Mr. Finch was loaded. Until today that had been a vague kinda 'rich,' in his head: lots of people were richer than him, just like lots of people were taller than him. Mr. Finch had been rich the way that all Wall Street suits were rich: they had a nice house, they had nice cars, they vacationed in the Bahamas, sure.

But Mr. Finch... was richer than that. Mr. Finch was rich enough that he took a $120 hit because he  _didn't want to rewrite the check right then._ Fusco granted that he hadn't been around that many rich people, but he was pretty sure this was not SOP. There was a difference between a guy who worked in a Wall Street firm, and the guy who  _owned_ the firm.

So how rich was Finch? And why was he doing shit like shlepping to the office with reports? He stuck the issue of the dusty printer onto this, as an asterisk.

Evidence docket, #3: The girls with the guns. Thelma and Louise, he decided. 'Joss,' and Attitude, and their black SUV. Lots of places had security, but it wasn't usually so... good-looking. Wasted on Finch and Reese, ha. And sure, there wasn't no law against having two hot chicks as your security detail, but Little Miss Attitude... if _she_ was corporate, he was Santa Claus.

(Attitude was Louise, he figured. So Joss was Thelma.)

And Finch had called security to come pick him up, not some office gofer. On a Friday night-- and she'd been quick to come, wearing her suit, driving the company car. What time had it been, like nine o'clock? Around there.

“--to Lionel?”

He jerked his mind back to now, wincing, because Tina was poking his cheek with one of her formidable, electric-purple fingernails. “Huh?”

“I said, Earth to Lionel-- still with us, space cadet?”

He straightened up on the bar stool, cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah. 'm good.”

Tina started putting things back in her zebra makeup bag. “Tired?”

He was, but that was sort of a background thing. Couldn't recall the last time he'd _not_ felt tired, really. “Nah. Just thinking.”

She arched one very-shaped brow. “Solving world hunger, Socrates?”

Fusco threw a glance at his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. She'd done a good job, like she had all the other nights so far. He'd have to think of something nice to do for her, he thought. “Nah. Just-- trying to sort through some stuff.”  
  
Tina zipped the case up, tucked it under her arm, stood up. “Well, don't think too hard. We're stuck in the working world, baby.”

And that was the truth, so he pushed it out of his mind, as best he could, and got to work.

He got breakfast with Marcus after closing up the club, a four a.m. meal at a greasy spoon. A steak and eggs skillet loaded with carbs and fat and protein, a splurge, but he had Finch's check in his pocket and the club's pay too. He could feel his arteries hardening at the sight of it, and it was glorious.

Marcus had a pile of pancakes you could have used for a landing pad. They ate. Fusco smelled like a goddamn mai tai because a soused college chick had tripped and spilled her glass all over him.

They ate, and they talked. Fusco learned that Marcus was divorced (“dumb young mistake, man”), no kids (“at least we didn't fuck up like that”), two cats (“Jabba and Greedo”), and that he made his living mostly by rent, not the club: Marcus had inherited a large, old house in one of the nicer blocks in Brooklyn, and leased the rooms he wasn't using. Beyond that they talked sports-- the friendship nearly hit a snag when Marcus admitted to being a Yankees fan, just like Stills-- and it was good, it was easy, there was no fear or wrongness to it. He did not worry that Marcus was going to suckerpunch him.

“Breakfast's on me,” he said, and insisted through two refusals, and Fusco walked back to the YMCA with the meat and eggs solid and warm in his belly, as the sun came up over the city.

***

Fusco got to the house at noon sharp, punched in the access code, and sat in his car watching the gate rolling slowly open for him. He had resolved to watch, to look for things, and as the metal slid to one side to let him in, he observed that it was a serious gate. Not so's you'd notice at first glance; nah, it _looked_ like fancy wrought-iron vines and little birds and shit. But it wasn't on wheels; it was set into a track in the pavement, and the track looked like heavy-duty steel. There was a track like that at the Brooklyn PD motor pool, so that it'd take more than a yahoo with a truck to ram it open-- if you tried it, the gate would just crumple in front of you, fuck up your undercarriage and probably stop you right there if you didn't have four-wheel drive.

Fusco drove through slow, side-eyeing the thickness of the brick wall that ringed the property. A solid foot. Was that normal? He didn't know wealthy suburban architecture, to have a point of reference.

The lawn, however, was just grass, and as he eased his way up toward the house (while the gate hummed shut behind him and _clanged_ softly home) Fusco pushed at the inside of his left cheek with his tongue, distending it, then drawing it back, then doing it again.

He was aware he was doing something kinda stupid, here.

Do your own time. That was the mantra that had gotten him through stir. Do your own time, mind your own business, don't sniff other people's shit. It had been good life advice for prison and it was still good advice. Whatever Mr. Finch and his whackjob boyfriend were tangled with, it was not his business and digging at it was not likely to get him much of anything but fired. Fuck up a good thing. He really ought to keep his head down, weed the garden, and dutifully not look beyond the shelves he was dusting.

But goddammit. He couldn't just ignore things, could he? Could ignore a lot of things, maybe, but not the bruises on Mr. Finch's wrist. He couldn't look the other way on that...

“Why not? You looked the other fuckin' way on a _lot_ of shit, once upon a time,” he snapped at himself, and then he was there and parking the car and heading inside.

(But maybe that was why, though. Goddammit, he didn't want to get involved in something dirty again. He didn't want to be working for meth cooks, or embezzlers, or what _ever_ they were probably gonna turn out to be. Just make his way and keep his hands clean; was that so _much_ to ask from the universe?)

The inside of the house was cool and quiet, no immediate sign of Bert or Ernie. “Hello?”

Not in the hearth room, not in the kitchen... The door to Mr. Finch's office was open, but the room was dark and the curtains were drawn. He would have kept going to knock on the bedroom door, but then there was a soft whine and the click of nails and Bear unfolded from the shadows in the office, beelining towards him. The dog shoved his nose in Fusco's crotch to say hi; he roughly scratched Bear's blunt skull while letting his eyes adjust to the dimness of the office.

Finch _was_ there, leaned back in his big leather chair, a washcloth over his eyes and forehead. His feet (Lionel vaguely noticed he was wearing purple-and-gray checked socks) were in Reese's lap. Reese was sitting on an ottoman, rubbing said feet, gazing directly at Fusco where he stood in the doorway. Fusco shot a glance up at the ceiling, then cleared his throat as softly as possible.

Finch made a little unhappy noise. “Mmm?”

“It's just Lionel,” Reese said before he could, barely a whisper. “Anything you want him to do today?”

Mr. Finch waved a pale hand of indifference. “Mmmf.”

Fusco mouthed _headache?_ at Reese, with a tip of his head in Finch's direction; Reese nodded in answer. Fusco frowned and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Reese just kept rubbing, his gaze sliding from Lionel back to his boyfriend, a pathetic devotion scrawled on his face that could have put the dog to shame. For chrissake.

“You guys have chamomile tea in the cupboard,” he murmured. “I'll make him a cup.”

Coulda been gratitude, in the look Reese shot him. Coulda been hatred. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

***

He noticed the first camera as he was driving the big mower around the property, later. The rumble of the riding mower throbbed up into his ribs and spine, not so bad that he needed to stop, but just enough that he was looking for distractions, his eyes wandering from one thing to the next like a DUI trying to walk a sobriety line. Anyway his gaze was moving, passing over the brick wall that edged the property street-side, and then he was drawn back to an irregularity at the top of the wall. On closer inspection (he knelt awkward and stiff on the mower's seat, craned up best he could to see what it was), it was, yeah, a camera-- in a discreet rust-colored housing to blend in better with the bricks. Fusco grunted to himself then slithered back down into the chair.

Security system. Nothing weird about that, all the art and antiques and shit Mr. Finch had in the house. Rich people had cameras. He'd ridden on, the mower chomping a path through the shaggy lawn and cutting it flat and picture-perfect once again.

There was another camera on the garage roof, he noticed when he drove the mower back in, an hour later. Good place for it, had a nice shot of the driveway, and of course anybody who'd try and knock over a house like this might try for one of the high-end cars. Made sense.

And when he went inside, sweat-soaked and breathing thin and thinking an Advil would be good, he happened to see a third camera, inside the laundry room, watching that entrance to the house, tucked nice and discreet in the corner, and this too only made sense, this was where you'd put your security cameras, but--

\--but how many cameras did they _need,_ anyway? And how many, exactly, were there?

By the time five o'clock rolled around, he'd counted five more in the house, covering doors and windows. They were subtle enough, like the one painted brick-red had been, but they were there. Fusco puffed up his cheeks with a breath and let it out as he made his way to Mr. Finch's office.

Having cameras wasn't a crime. Just like all the other bits of weird weren't crimes. Or even _that weird,_ individually. It was just... the sum of the parts, like Carl woulda said.

He rapped on the office door, which was shut now, and got no answer. So he rapped again, said, “Mr. Finch? Uh, Harold?”

“We're in the bedroom, Lionel,” said Finch's voice, from that door, and he made a face at the goose print in the hallway before closing the distance. The door swung open under his hand and--

\--they were in bed. Fuckit, they were--

\--okay, okay, they weren't actually-- _doing_ anything, but goddammit. Fusco's gaze shot up to the ceiling, but not before he'd gotten a good look: Reese was shirtless, with the sheets drawn up to his waist, so for all Fusco knew he mighta been pantsless too, and he was on his side, curled around his boyfriend like a big dog. Finch likewise had the sheets drawn up, was wearing a cotton tee. One arm around Reese, pale hand on bare skin that was only a little darker; the other hand holding an iPad. Finch was looking quizzically his direction.

“Sorry,” he managed, gaze now aimed upwards. “Should have knocked.”

“Hmn? You did,” Finch pointed out, and he caught the peripheral motion of Finch's head dropping back down to his screen. “It's quite alright.”

Yeah, well, alright for _them,_ maybe-- Fusco rubbed at the back of his neck and let his gaze drift lower, to the wall a little right of Finch, at least. Reese hadn't moved. Maybe he was asleep, or maybe he was watching, like a lazy panther, with scheming slits for eyes. Who knew.

Least Finch sounded, and looked, better than he had earlier. Fusco said as much. “Looks like you're feeling better.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. I took a nap, that helped. And John said you were responsible for the tea, earlier?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, it was very thoughtful.” Mr. Finch flashed him a brief smile. Lionel returned it automatically and hoped didn't look too weird on his face. There was a moment of silence, awkward, long, while Finch looked at him, and he looked at Finch, and Reese lay there imitating a barnacle. Mr. Finch glanced down first, back to his tablet, and then started a little.

“How did it get to be five o'clock? I'm sorry, you're wanting your check--”

Fusco jerked his shoulders in a shrug. “Yep. Figured we'd better sort out my pay, though.”

Finch had been reaching into the nightstand; he paused in this motion, looked over with lips pursed. “You're still refusing the eighty?”

He looked up at the ceiling again. Again, something had to be wrong with him. Why the hell couldn't he just take it, say thank you, and _go_? Before prison he sure would've. Christ.

“Yeah. Well. It's just-- I haven't earned that, yet,” he ground out, and Mr. Finch made this little noise that sounded like he agreed but was too polite to actually say so.

What Finch did say was, “But John did promise you more money, to return to work...”

Reese's voice cut in, though he never moved from his position burrowed against Finch's side. “Pay him a salary.”

Finch blinked down at his pet human. “Sorry?”

“That was your original agreement.” Reese unfolded a little, rolled onto his back. Fusco's gaze cut assessingly across Reese's bared torso: no six-pack, no bulging pecs. Reese didn't have a gym twink body after all. Fusco'd seen a lot of the young guys who used the prison gym, pumping for definition; it looked good, sure, but it didn't tell you nothing about how tough they were. But Reese, like him, had working muscle, not show muscle.

'Course, Reese was way lankier and didn't have his buried under a layer of fat. Jesus, did Reese have some scars, though.

“--have a point,” Finch was saying, and Fusco snapped his attention back to the conversation. Finch peered at him, his mouth small, his head tipped to the side.

“How's this,” said Finch, crisp, sounding like the accountant he supposedly was, “sixty-five-hundred dollars per month, irrespective of daily hours worked, paid in two parts on the first and fifteenth of each month. Today is the fourteenth, but it's also Friday, so we'll take care of the next two weeks now, if that's satisfactory...?”

Fusco did math in his head. Forty an hour came out to maybe six-grand a month, give or take a few hundred, so this was a little bit of a raise-- but it was also a nod to his ribs, letting him get full pay while not working full time. It was generous, it was a good deal, but it wasn't as straight-up ridiculous as Reese's double pay.

It also meant that Finch was about to write him a check for $3,250.

Between that and what he'd managed to stash in the bank so far, that would get him into an apartment.

“Yeah,” Lionel said, his mouth a little dry. “Yeah, that sounds like it'd work.”

"Well, I'm glad we could come to an arrangement,” Finch said drily, and got out his checkbook.

 


	35. Chapter 35

Fusco had signed the lease in a fit of madness and now he was second-guessing himself.

The floors were hardwood, really nice, but his feet echoed in the empty apartment. His things sat in a sad pile in the center of the living room-- in his car and at the Y, they'd been crammed, stuffed into plastic bags and cardboard boxes, but here they were sprawled out, and still looked small.

It was a nice place. A little tight on space, maybe... but, Fusco thought, before he'd seen how the other half lived, tasted that cavernous house out in Oyster Bay, he wouldn't have thought it was small. It was about right for a place in the city. About the size of his old place, give or take a dozen square feet. And a hell of a lot bigger than a prison cell.

And the bedroom that would be Lee's was small-- but it was a room; and the kitchen had about four square feet of counter space-- but it was his own to use; and once he got some furniture out of storage, it... it would be alright.

He paced from one wall of the living room to the other, swinging his arms restlessly. He looked at his watch. He sat down on the plastic crate that was currently the closest thing he had to a chair and then he got back up again.

Even though he was waiting for it, the knock at the door still made him jump.

He undid the bolt with fingers that only shook a little, and then, there on the other side of the door, was Lee. And Janet of course-- looking around, assessing, skeptical-- but he wasn't paying attention to her.

“C'mon in,” he said with a toothache grin. “Lemme show you around. It'll take about twenty seconds.”

***

One of the reasons he'd picked the apartment was the park just down the street. Lee ran with his limbs going every which way, hurtling along the grass towards a soccer game in progress, and Fusco watched him with his heart stuck in his chest.  
  
“He's gotten so tall,” he said, and Janet made a noise that coulda been agreement.

“Can he spend the night?” he asked, before he could talk himself out of it, and she gave him a disbelieving half-laugh.

“Lionel, you don't have a bed for him. You don't have a bed for _you._ ”

“I know. I know that. I figured we could-- pretend we were camping, put our blankets on the floor, I mean, just one night, for shits and giggles. He'll be back in school soon, you know, so...”

She sighed and sank onto the park bench, running her fingers through her wavy hair, starting at her temples and going back. He was struck with a pang of nostalgia: he could remember doing that for her, some nights, a long time ago. It hadn't always been bad. And shit, maybe they should never have gotten married, maybe he hadn't been cut out for it from the start, but... he couldn't help but miss some things, regret some things.

Janet crossed her arms. “Do you even have any food in the kitchen yet?”

“Sure.” This was technically true. There was a box of cereal he'd shoved into one of the cabinets, and the granola bars.

She looked less than agreeable. He couldn't blame her. He wished he hadn't asked-- he could have pitched it for next weekend, then at least had goddamn furniture in place. But Christ, the thought of being under the same roof as his son again, just for one night... he wanted it. Wanted to hear the sound of his son breathing as he slept, wanted to make breakfast for him the next morning, wanted Saturday morning cartoons and hockey in the park and all of those vanished things once more.

It was Sunday, though, and she was right to say no. He told himself that, dully.

“How are you affording it?” she said instead, and he threw a look at her, because that wasn't _quite_ a no.

“Two jobs,” he said after he found his voice. “I picked up some part-time work at a bar, but I've got tonight off from that. And the yardwork gig-- I told you, it pays good.”

Janet turned on the bench to face him, her mouth drawn tight, her eyes flat as asphalt. “You tell me something, Lionel. You swear it to me by St. Joe himself: this 'yardwork' job is just that. You're not running drugs, you're not leaning on people, you're not doing _anything_ like that again.”

He rubbed his sweaty palms against the knees of his jeans. Every weird thing about Finch and Reese boiled up in his mouth, but that wasn't him, dammit. Whatever they were up to, _he_ wasn't doing fuck-all wrong.

“I swear to you,” he said, solemn like a catechism, “everything I'm doing is legit. I mow the lawn, I cook, I walk their dog, I clean the house. Honest truth, Jan. I'll swear it on Lee himself if you want me to.”

She gazed at him and then... then she smiled, wry, funny, like in the old days. “If you'd busted your ass around the house like that with me maybe we'd still be married.”

He let out the breath he'd been holding. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Janet faced forward again and watched Lee swing a stick at something. “We'll see what Lee says,” she said.

***

Fusco sprawled on his brand-new futon, spread on the living room floor, watching his son. Lee was self-conscious, grinning, brushing his shaggy hair back from his face in between his demonstrations.

“So, uh, this one's a wolf, see?” His son's hands moved, and Fusco's old police flashlight cast the shape of them onto the bare wall.

“Hey, yeah, that one's pretty good.”

“Oh, and Morgan showed me this one, too-- it's a duck--”

Morgan was a camp counselor, Lionel had learned. And he'd learned about Tim and Zach and Alberto, Lee's bunkmates at this camp, and he'd learned about how you could tell north from south by moss on a tree, and how coyote pawprints showed nails but cat prints didn't, and the call of a whippoorwill, and a whole bunch of other stuff that didn't mean nothing, that had no bearing on the life of Lionel Fusco and never would, but it was coming from his son and so he drank it up, every word.

They ate cold cereal. They sat in plastic lawn chairs, purchased at the same time as the futon. He wrestled Lee on the futon, noogied his head and tickled his ribs until Lee was wheezing with it, and Lionel knew that Lee was twelve now and that these things would be gone soon enough, that Lee was indulging him maybe. Doing this for _him,_ when he was too old for this crap, really. And a kid shouldn't have to play at young for the sake of his old man who'd missed two years, but goddamn, Lee sure was a good kid, a great kid. Better than he deserved. It was three a.m. before his son fell asleep, curled on his side against him like how he had when he was six. Fusco lay there, one arm draped loosely over his boy, and listened to Lee's breathing for a long time.

***

The radio announced a heat wave, as Fusco drove out into Long Island the next day, having dropped Lee off at Janet's on the way.

“Tell me something I don't know, asshole,” Fusco griped in answer. The car's AC needed freon, so he was stuck with 460 AC and it was a shitty substitute. His hands felt sticky-sweaty on the steering wheel. The good vibes of last night were starting to be outweighed by the annoying intrusion of reality, and the echoes of Janet's question.

So, hypothetically, say Mr. Finch turned out to be cooking drugs upstairs. What then? Could he quit? Could he give up that paycheck? Especially with the apartment to pay rent on, now? (Fuck, he'd been so stupid-eager to sign that lease, so thrilled to find someone who didn't demand a co-sign--)

Shit, would he be _allowed_ to quit, if he stumbled on something dirty? Lot of yard on that property to bury a body, hnh.

That was crazy thinking. He sighed and shifted around on the lumpy foam of the driver's seat. Despite his paranoia, realistically, they probably couldn't be doing anything worse than skimming funds off the corporate accounts or whatever. That made a lot more sense than a meth lab. And white collar crime didn't involve the gardener, so he was probably fine. He _was_ fine. He was just the help.

***

“I think for lunch we'll just have you pick something up from town,” Mr. Finch said when he came in, after the usual _hi hello how are you._ “It's too hot to cook, isn't it?”

The kitchen was as nicely chilled as the rest of the house (god, he couldn't even imagine their electric bill), and it was going to mean going right back out into the noonday heat, but Lionel supposed that wasn't worth pointing out. He leaned against the kitchen counter's edge and tilted his face back to the AC for a few more blissful seconds.

“Sure. You got anything in mind?”

Finch was filling a glass of ice water from the fridge's dispenser, but he turned to the drawer where they kept about two dozen take-out menus and fished one out. “Yes, I think I'd like the goat cheese ravioli from Wild Honey. You're welcome to order what you'd like, of course.”

Fusco supposed that someday he'd get used to regularly blowing fifteen or twenty dollars of somebody else's money on lunch, but it hadn't happened yet. He scanned the menu, trying not to look at the prices, sneaking glances at Finch here and there. Finch was wearing white trousers and a rusty-orange shirt that looked kind of wrinkled, which seemed unlike him, and no vest or tie, but more to the point, his shirtsleeves were rolled up enough that he could see Finch's pale wrists, and there were no new bruises on them. So that was good.

Reese was not in the hearth room. “What's John want?” Fusco asked as his eyes wandered over some bullshit words like 'truffle baked oysters.'

Finch hesitated, which drew his gaze back up. “I have to ask him. Actually, I was thinking you might take him with you,” Finch said. He didn't say anything back, so Mr. Finch plunged on--

“He got his cast off this weekend. It would be good for him to get outside the house, I think.”

Finch didn't sound terribly sure. Fusco ran his tongue around inside his cheek. “Okay.”

“If the two of you won't have any difficulties, that is.”

Fusco squinted at him. He wasn't sure if that was a dire threat, a polite-and-Finchy way of saying, _you had better not throw down with my G.I. Joe again, or this time I will fire you so hard you'll be launched into orbit..._ or whether this was a polite-and-Finchy way of saying, _I'm really worried about my psycho boyfriend, tell me he's going to be alright?_

He decided to split the difference and be a smartass. “Only one way to find out, yeah?”

Finch gave the tiniest of grimaces, and went to fetch the Lincoln's keys from their peg by the door.

Footsteps in the hall, slow and halting, proceeded Reese into the kitchen's doorway, where he stopped and stood there with an uncertain and generalized glower on his face. The big cast was gone in favor of a walking cast, and he was using a cane rather than the crutch. He looked off his balance in a few respects.

Mr. Finch smiled at his boyfriend, bright as a new nickel. “There you are. I settled on Wild Honey for lunch. Do you want the salmon tostada? I think you had it last time and said you liked it.”

Reese just shrugged. Finch tossed Lionel the keys, then stepped to intercept Reese-- hands on his shoulders, straightening the collar of his polo shirt, saying something too low for Fusco to hear though he could see Finch's mouth moving. _No fighting,_ probably. Or something sappier, who knew with them. Then Mr. Finch-- aw, dammit, he really was gonna, wasn't he, yes, Christ, he was-- Mr. Finch went up on tiptoe and gave Reese a peck on the lips. Fusco dropped his gaze back down to the menu.

“These oysters any good?” he said, once they'd stopped with the PDA.

“Oh, yes, they're quite nice,” Finch said, too brightly. “You should try them. John, would you rather have those instead of the tostada?”

Reese _sighed_ , like it was a real big hardship to have to pick which overpriced lunch entree his boyfriend was going to pay for. There was low-grade, muted annoyance leaking off him. “I don't care, Harold.”

Fusco watched Finch clear his throat and take a step back from his boyfriend. “The tostada then. I'll call it in.”

“Sounds good,” Lionel said quickly, and beelined for the door. The heat outside was almost welcome. Fusco fiddled with the Lincoln's keys as Reese navigated the utility room and exited after him.

“Behave yourselves,” Finch called, kinda pessimistically Fusco thought, and they moved together for the garage.

***

“So, no more cast, huh?” Fusco said while he waited for Reese to buckle his seatbelt and for the Lincoln's arctic AC to cool down the car's interior. He adjusted the mirrors, brought the seat forward an inch. Reese just nodded. Were they back to non-verbal?

“Bet that's an improvement. Never broke anything myself but it's gotta feel good to get it off.”

Reese ignored him entirely. Instead he stretched his leg out, gingerly, and settled the cane against his knee. Because Lionel Fusco was now aware of the things Reese might use to beat the shit out of him, he spared a glance for it-- reddish wood, a gold cane topper in the shape of a duck's head. Probably real gold. Probably Finch's. There was something faintly hilarious about Reese using a cane with a duck's head.

“Okay,” Fusco sighed, “you don't gotta talk, but you do gotta put on your seatbelt.”

Reese gazed at him, blue and steady and a little squinty, over the distance between the seats. Fusco gave it right back. “We really doing this? You talked just fine to me the other day. When you were bribing me and all. Come on. Put on your seatbelt.”

“Or you'll tell Harold,” Reese observed.

“Or I'll tell Harold, sure.” The seats in the Lincoln were so good. Firm-smooth, curved right around you. Fusco wriggled his shoulders back against the seat, testing how much he sank in. “But I don't want to have to do that, okay? I'd like to get through a day of this without you and me fighting. I really would.”

Reese smiled, a thin knife slash in his granite face. “Really?”

He threw Reese a dirty look. “You think I _liked_ getting my ribs cracked? Yeah, _really_.” Reese studied him, then grabbed his seatbelt and buckled it, deliberately. Fusco huffed out a breath and nodded.

They were all the way to the gate, rolling slowly open for them, when Reese said, soft and deadly, “You liked the fight, though.”

“ 'Scuse me?”

Reese's shoulders settled back into the seat. He gestured with one hand, blunt fingers drifting off from the dashboard, circling nothing in particular. “In the moment. Hitting something. Letting go. Just saying 'fuck it' and _swinging_. That felt good, didn't it, Lionel?”

For two bucks, he thought, he might be willing to punch Reese again. The guy had a punchable face. --Jesus, was that what the guy _wanted?_ Fuck. Fuck, it totally was, wasn't it.

“I think you're talking about yourself there, buddy,” he ground out, and turned right out of the driveway. Reese didn't argue it. He looked almost serene as he lifted one shoulder, drifty-loose, and settled himself against the passenger door.

“--don't get any ideas,” Fusco snapped. “I didn't come back to be your punching bag. And you know Harold wouldn't go for it.”

Reese didn't argue that, either, just sighed, like that was a real sad truth.

Fusco scowled at the street ahead and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He muttered, “You're fucked up, you know that?”

Reese looked out his window and said nothing at all.

The Lincoln cruised through the tree-lined streets, past the homes of the rich, everyone behind their ivy-covered walls or wrought-iron fences. Fusco squinted at the other homes, wondering who lived there, what their story was, if they also might be in the business of needing a gardener. But the houses got a little smaller and more tightly packed, and then they swung onto Pine Hollow Rd. The town had a section that was kinda normal, in that it had regular-person shops like a convenience store and a CVS and a McDonald's-- too spaced out and suburban, but still-- but closer to the shore it got into the boutiques and galleries and shit. Wild Honey was closer to the shore, of course.

Reese kept his face to his window and Fusco was tired of trying to make conversation, so he punched the radio on. The car filled with the sounds of a lady talking, kinda nasally and snobby, and he bet with himself that it was NPR twenty seconds before it was confirmed. He squinted at the buttons, fiddled through the presets (lotta talk and news radio) until he hit one that was playing Springsteen. Good enough.

“Your station?” he hazarded a guess. Alright, apparently he couldn't help himself. Fusco wasn't comfortable with silence. It made it hard to tell what other people were thinking, what they might be about to do.

Reese glanced back, one brow arched. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Seems like the others are more Harold. Classical, and news, and all. He seems like a... Beethoven kinda guy.”

Reese snorted, faint amusement-- it wasn't _much,_ but it was something. “They're all Harold's.”

“Okay. So what do you listen to?”

Something kinda uncomfortable darted over Reese's face. He shifted in the seat. “...this is fine.”

“Okaaaay.” Strike two for the day. Or three. Who knew. God, why was he _trying?_

\--because this was an improvement over how it had been at the start, he guessed. Because trying to pry words out from Reese with a crowbar was better than Reese trying to make his life hell. Because awkward was better than hostile. Because it wasn't in his nature to let things _sit,_ like this: he'd always been... good with people, he guessed. Good with finding an in, making himself liked, making a place for himself. He didn't know how not to try.

So what did Reese like? What was his in? Apparently he liked getting in fights, and he liked his dog, and he liked his boyfriend. Short of chasing a ball, sucking dick, or sticking a sign on himself that said 'hit me,' Fusco didn't have any bright ideas.

***

Wild Honey was one of those places that oozed money, like most of the restaurants in town. It was 'rustic' and informal in the way that only a place that charged fifteen dollars for a salad could be. He moved for the counter while behind him Reese stood in the doorway, scanning the joint like something might bite them.

“Pickup for Finch?” he said, and the girl at the register smiled with another perfect-orthodontia smile, consulted her screen.

“It'll just be a few minutes. Have a seat?”

So he and Reese sat there, on an artisanal wooden bench or whatever. Reese gripped his cane and sat straight, staring over the room as though, at one point or another, the tables and chairs had fucked his mother and he was maybe plotting revenge. Fusco dug out his phone and checked it for messages or missed calls; there weren't any. He put it away.

“So Harold likes this place? Must be good food.” His conversational attempts were getting more and more lame, Fusco thought, but it wasn't like the guy was giving him a lot to work with.

Case in point: Reese's eyes didn't leave the far wall, and all he said was, “It's alright.”

“What's his favorite place, then?” It was a little gamble. He was hoping Reese might be more willing to talk about his boyfriend than himself. Some people were like that: clammy about themselves, but you could get them chattering about their SOs. You know, the people who were stupid in love.

...didn't work with Reese, though. Reese's eyes sliced his way like a junkyard dog's, suspicious. “Why do you want to know?”

Oh Jesus. Fusco held up his hands. “He's the guy who signs my checks, yeah? I'm so crazy, to want to figure out how to keep the boss happy?”

Reese directed visual assault fire his way a few more seconds, then it flipped into a smirk. The guy leaned against the pillar at the end of the bench, stretched his leg out in front of him.

“You _like_ Harold,” Reese observed, and what the hell was that supposed to mean? Sure, yeah, he liked Mr. Finch, overall, the guy had been nice to him, but Reese said it snide and amused, and man, he did not have energy for Reese's-- _whatever._ Whatever this was.

“Sure,” he said wearily. “I like him. What's that--”

“If you ever hurt him in any way, I will kill you.”

Fusco blinked. It had been delivered conversationally, softly, and he wasn't even sure he'd heard right. Reese's face was mild, almost pleasant, his clear blue eyes watching Fusco for reaction.

“Uh...”

The door opened, spilling sunlight from the street over them. Four guys, polo shirts and and sunglasses, laughing and chatting it up. Fusco sagged back into the bench, thankful for the noise, the distraction. They asked for a table and were told it'd be thirty minutes. It set one of them off.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The speaker had a gold watch on. Fusco pegged him as fifty-but-fit, tanned skin, wavy hair. “Thirty _minutes?_ ”

“Sorry, sir, but it is lunch hour. We'll get you a table as soon as we can. Can I just get your name?”

“You can definitely get my name. It's Dr. Marino. Can you spell that on your own? How about you tell me _your_ name, so I can bring it up to the owner?”

The poor kid was looking down at the hostess stand, the tips of her ears red. Fusco felt a surge of annoyance at this would-be big dick. Money sure as hell didn't guarantee class, did it?

“I didn't hear that,” the doc was saying, real sharp, and the girl ducked her head and mumbled some more, another apology it sounded like. Fusco pursed his lips, then looked out the window to the street.

There was the sound of a hand hitting wood and he looked back. Doc had slammed his hand down on the top of the stand and he was in the girl's face now. She was cringing back from him.

“--fucking unacceptable, and I expect respect when I come here, or--”

“Hey!”

...he realized that had come from his own mouth when all four of the guys looked at him. Fusco shoved himself upright from the bench. “Look, _doctor,_ the place is busy, okay? We called in our fuckin' food and we still gotta wait for it, it's lunchtime. You think yelling at her's gonna get you to a table faster? Back off.”

Doc's eyes raked over him like he was so many grass clippings-- taking in his thrift store khakis, Fusco supposed, his sweaty shirt. “Excuse me? You got something to say to me?”

“I think I just did. You wanna be a big man and get in someone's face, how about you make it somebody other than a kid who's gonna lose her job if she tells you what a dick you're being.”

The doctor flushed. “I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I'm a friend of the owner and--”

“Bullshit,” Lionel said. “Fuck, even if you are, I don't care. You wanna go outside, we can do that, otherwise sit down and wait like every other goddamn normal person.”

They stood there a few seconds. Lionel was unworried about this prick on his own-- he halfway hoped the guy _did_ do the stupid macho thing and go outside with him, because it would be deeply satisfying to punch the shit out of a rich asshole. ( _You liked the fight,_ Reese said in his head.) If his friends joined in, that might be a different story... but the real risk wasn't getting his ass kicked, it was consequences past that. Rich fuckers didn't just square things with you in the parking lot. Rich fuckers had lawyers.

There was motion in his peripheral, and Reese was there, at his elbow, leaning on his cane. “Man's got a point,” Reese said, and though he was soft-spoken as hell, people listened when he spoke.

One of the doc's buddies tugged at his sleeve. “Come on, Matt. You had a few beers out on the course. Let's just sit down, yeah?”

The doctor locked eyes, not with Fusco, but with Reese. A few seconds ticked by. The dickweed blinked first, shaking off his friend's hand and stomping to another bench. The tension dissipated. Fusco let out a breath, then slowly eased his ass back down onto the bench. Reese did too.

That could have gone bad, Fusco thought to himself. Again: consequences. Lawyers. If he got himself in trouble with the cops for picking a fight with an upright citizen... yeah, that would look great with Finch, wouldn't it? But Reese... had backed him up.

He stole a sidelong glance at Reese. Reese...

...looked deeply satisfied with life. He had a smirk aimed at the doctor, a smirk that said, _come on asshole, I'm here if you change your mind and grow some balls._ Right, he had to remember that Reese was essentially crazy.

“Order for Finch?” said the cashier, a fixed, bright smile on her face, and Fusco got up to get the food.

***

They drove back, once more trading the cutesy shops for the slightly less cutesy. Fusco tried a few different radio stations but Reese never seemed to care, so in the end he just left it on the station that had been playing Springsteen earlier; it was the Stones now. Fusco figured he and Reese had to be... _roughly_ around the same age (okay, he probably had a few years on him); their tastes couldn't be too far off. And everyone liked music. Right? Even hardass soldiers.

“So where were you posted?”

“What?”

He switched lanes to pass a really slow Prius, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Reese turn and squint suspiciously at him. “Harold said you were ex-Army. So you were what... Gulf War?” No, Fusco thought after saying it, too far back. Time flew; the Gulf was a long time ago already. Not likely, unless Reese had joined young. “Afghanistan?”

Reese was looking at him sour and pissy. Fusco shrugged. “What, I can't _ask_?”

“I'd be happier if you didn't,” Reese said, and then his gaze sharpened on something past Fusco. Instinctively his own head snapped that way, scanning out the driver's side window-- threat? Soccer mom with two kids coming out of the McDonald's, _no –_ a teenager going in wearing a work shirt, _no –_ minivans, a Lexus, an old couple in tennis gear, no, no -

There wasn't anything he could see. He cut eyes back to Reese, but Reese was still staring past him, out that window, at _something._

He looked again. Nothing there but the Golden Arches, 93 million served. What was he looking--

\--it clicked, nice and simple. Reese's disinterest in the menu, his unease in this world, how he'd thought more than once Reese didn't belong here any more than he did. Fusco looked back carefully at Reese.

“...you want a Big Mac?” he asked cautiously.

Son-of-a-bitch if his asshole face didn't light _right_ up.

“ _Fries_ ,” Reese said, with feeling, and Fusco swerved into the turn lane. What the hell, huh.

 


	36. Chapter 36

Reese ordered a Big Mac, extra cheese; two large orders of fries, and a milkshake.

“Balsamic glazed arugula,” he said, his eyes narrowed, as he burrowed into the brown paper bag the instant it made it into his hands. “Pecan-crusted _shrimp.”_

Fusco did, occasionally, know when to keep his mouth shut. He mutely proffered over the chocolate milkshake as Reese jammed a big handful of fries into his mouth.

“Organic, farm-sourced, free-range, cage-free duck,” Reese growled venomously, through his mouthful of grease and salt. “Chilean sea bass. Radicchio. Tuna tartare.”

He snatched the milkshake from Fusco, staring blue murder out the windshield at the ghosts of gourmet meals past. Reese's jaw ground back and forth as he devoured the fries; he slurked the shake like a man on a mission from God. The first bag of fries was gone by the time they reached the stoplight on the corner. Reese paused a moment, took stock, gazed at his wrapped burger for the space of a few breaths.

“ _Lemongrass,”_ he hissed as a final curse, and shredded the burger's paper with one violent wrench of his hand.

Fusco waited until Reese had destroyed the hamburger and was pecking at the last of the second bag of fries to say anything. “Feel better?”

Reese side-eyed him, then shook the salt and the burnt French fry fragments at the bottom of the bag into his mouth. “Tell Harold, and I'll--”

“Kill me, yeah, yeah, I know.” Fusco flicked the turn signal, then left the main road for the side street that led back to the house. “I bet you could wreck a pizza, huh? A _real_ pizza, I mean. No artichoke hearts in sight.”

That was definitely a considering silence from the passenger seat. Fusco grinned.

“I'll see what I can do.”

***

Mr. Finch looked downright relieved when the two of them came back in the house with no new bruises; Fusco supposed he couldn't really find that insulting given how close he'd come to popping Reese one in the car. Bear said “hi” real energetically, bypassing his usual nose-into-groin in favor of trying to lick at Reese's face. Probably he smelled the fries, the bastard.

They ate in the breakfast nook, Finch dividing his attention between a tablet and the food, and Reese kinda half-heartedly pecking at his own meal. Since Mr. Finch usually provided the conversation, without him doing that, it was quiet. Fusco let it stand; he figured he'd done his share of trying to get chit-chat going in the car with Reese.

But it was an easier silence, than that first meal they'd had with the three of them. That had to count for something.

It was Finch who broke it anyway, done with his food, glancing up at last from his tablet (looked like spreadsheets, on Lionel's surreptitious glance over, tons and tons of spreadsheets). “--John, aren't you hungry?”

Reese got a vaguely deer-in-the-headlights look. His plate was still half-full; trust Finch to notice _that._

Mr. Finch frowned his small, concerned frown. “Does it not taste alright?”

“No. No, it's fine,” Reese said, low-key squirming, and... this right here was probably worth a lot of the shit he'd put up with, Lionel thought, to watch Reese wriggle on the hook a bit because he couldn't bring himself to tell his boyfriend he'd eaten junk food instead of whatever-the-fuck-that-thirty-dollar-thing was on Reese's plate.

Finch propped an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand and gazed at his boyfriend with existential worry. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed the tostada on you,” he sighed.

“It's _fine,”_ Reese said, and he kinda barely managed to not do it through clenched teeth. Man, did Fusco wish he had some popcorn. “I'm just not very hungry.”

That didn't assuage Harold any. He murmured, “I worry about your appetite.”

A muscle jumped below Reese's eye, a tic in the making. He pushed his chair back from the table and grabbed his plate and his duck-headed cane, and wordlessly gimped it into the kitchen. Finch sighed, softly, and Fusco got to his feet and collected both their plates and drifted after Reese, because he couldn't say nothin' to the guy while Reese was within earshot, not about _He ate a huge burger, don't worry, his appetite's dandy,_ and also not, _Okay, Harold, you need to pull it back about forty miles, before he snaps and stabs you in your sleep._

In the kitchen Reese was grimly stretching plastic wrap over his half-eaten meal. Fusco scraped his and Finch's plates into the trash can and murmured under his breath to Reese, “Next time, shove stuff off to the dog, he wouldn'ta noticed.”

Reese snorted, but that too was a little victory. Fusco let him go. Reese disappeared back into the hearth room and the sounds of ESPN kicked in a few seconds later. At the table, Finch had his chin in both hands and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“He's fine,” Fusco said quietly as he came back to grab their glasses. “Don't stress it so much.”

Mr. Finch plucked off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I'm sure,” he said after a few seconds, one of those meaningless things you said when you were making yourself not say something else. Then: “Would you clean in the bedroom today? It could stand to be dusted and swept, and the bathroom gone over as well.”

Yeah. Yeahhh. He'd managed thus far to avoid actually cleaning their bedroom, but, shit, with the money Finch was paying him it wasn't like he was gonna get out of that, was he.

“Sure,” he said, and Finch gave him a small and weary smile before collecting his tablet and limping for his office.

***

He was being pretty much a pussy over it, he pointed out to himself as he stepped inside the bedroom with a broom in one hand and the dusting rag and spray in the other. Fuck's sake, in prison he'd scrubbed down communal toilets used by fifty filthy motherfuckers who couldn't aim. He'd washed boxers in bulk, and blood out of bedsheets.

Prison laundry was not the same, though. It wasn't-- he struggled to think of the word as he moved mechanically to the nearest piece of furniture and sprayed it down with Pledge-- it wasn't... personal. It was a bunch of strangers, and it wasn't, y'know, looking at that movie-set-huge bed and going to yourself, _okay, so, realistically, they have probably banged a lot on that. A lot of ass has probably been fucked in this room._

Fusco stared at the big wooden dresser or whatever it was he was dusting down, a tiny line between his brows. Beat out a prison cot, didn't it? You could not get much more fucking different from the finite space of a cell at Fishkill, six feet by eight feet, three concrete walls and one wall bars (guys covered the walls with crap, as best you could, with posters or photos or drawings from their kids, whatever, but they were still institutional green, and they were still cold and blank beneath whatever you tried to cover them with), and a narrow bunk with a three-inch-thick plastic mattress...

...and this. The room with all its-- its goddamn _size_. You could put four Fishkill cells in here easy, Lionel figured, and have some closet space to spare. Christ, the walk-in closet probably _was_ the size his cell had been. Fusco pushed open the closet door and gazed in at a forest of clothes, eyeing the back wall where a rack of shoes hung. Seven feet back? Sure. Yeah. It really was about the size of his cell. He took a few steps in, aware of the closeness and the fullness of the space around him, and the gap of the door at his back.

This wall, here, with the shoes-- that would have been his bunk. This wall would have been the sink, the toilet. A shelf-slash-table-slash-desk over here, and the single chair. He remembered the exact placement of these items. Hard flat lines, everything angular, no curves. Instead of steel and plastic, the finite space around him was filled with fine fabric; Fusco reached out and tentatively fingered the sleeve of a hanging suit. Finch's most likely. The cloth was heavy and fine between his thumb and forefinger. The small enclosed space smelled of mothballs and leather and shoe polish, not disinfectant.

The thought clawed at him from nowhere, from his blind spot, that Reese was about to slam the closet door and shut him in. Lionel's heart rabbited upward into his throat and he spun desperately around--

\--nothing, no Reese, just the open doorway and the too-big bedroom beyond. He lurched back out into the sunlit expanse of the room, with its good taste and expensive furnishings and hunter green curtains and nothing dangerous, nothing dangerous.

He took some time to breathe, standing there in the center of their bedroom.

Stupid. Stupid fucking shithead brain. Full of crap that didn't matter anymore. It was ninety miles driving to get from Fishkill out to Oyster goddamn Bay, so it wasn't like Carl Elias was gonna fucking show up, was it?

Fusco tackled the (massive, white-tile-and-chrome) bathroom with a vengeance. He scrubbed at the fixtures until he could see himself in them, warped but red-faced, and then he scrubbed some more.

***

“How's the ribs?” said Mr. Finch, as Fusco was replacing the trash bag on the can in the study. Fusco glanced up, gave a little shrug.

“Better. Healing.”

Finch had a gimlet gaze, and looked him over with it. No cosmetics today, no Tina, but the bruises were fading: only there if you knew where to look. Finch studied him a moment then dropped his gaze back to his expensive tablet.

“I'm glad your trip into town was uneventful, shall we say.”

“Me too,” Fusco said sincerely, and was rewarded with the faintest of lip twitches from Mr. Finch, though he didn't raise his head. Fusco knotted off the trash bag and straightened up.

“I think John and I are working stuff out,” he said, and Finch slowly lowered the tablet once more, looked up with an expression Fusco had a hard time placing. Finch was hard to read anyway, he'd noticed. Everything was tiny with him-- tiny smiles, tiny frowns, tiny tension lines around his pale eyes or thin lips. You had to watch. But if he'd had to put a name on the look Finch gave him, it was maybe: half-sad, half-hopeful.

“Oh?” he said, cautious, and Fusco hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his khakis and gave a little nod, doing his best to radiate ease and nonchalance.

“Yeah. I know most of his, uh--” _don't say crazy,_ “--I think a lot of the, the friction just comes from him being... bored? I can empathize, kinda.” Yeah, he knew what lockup felt like. And while it didn't entirely make the desire to kick Reese in the head go away, because there was still a world of difference between this fucking mansion and a jail cell, it was... something, anyway. Somewhere to start from.

Finch's fingers tapped against the tablet's glass screen, his nails clicking. For a moment he didn't say anything, then he pulled his glasses off his face and looked out the bay window. He looked funny without the glasses, pale and big-eyed, like one of those cave fish or something. Exposed.

“In some respects I think I owe you an apology,” he said, and he sounded tired, and he looked tired too. Fusco wasn't sure what to do with that, so he echoed what Finch had said, that careful, non-committal “Oh?”

“Yes, I... this entire-- situation, this arrangement between us.” Finch tapped his glasses' earpiece against his pursed lips, still staring out at the lawn. “It might have been overly optimistic of me, originally. I'm not--”

The chair creaked as Finch leaned back in it. “I'm not unaware of John's...” (Fusco wondered if Mr. Finch, too, was trying not to say 'crazy') “...moods. I don't imagine he would have made this very easy on-- anyone-- and I... I don't know, I suppose I took a bit of a gamble, a calculated risk, in trying to find him some sort of distraction. I'm not sure that was wise of me. Or kind.”

Okay, yeah, he still didn't know what to do with this. Distraction? What now? Was Finch saying he'd hired someone _expecting_ Reese might beat them up?

“Uh...” Fusco rubbed at the back of his neck and offered up a jerky shrug. “I dunno, I think it's working out okay, now.”

Finch twisted to look at him. With his face bare maybe he was easier to read, or maybe this confessional thing he was doing meant his guard was dropped: he looked like a man who really wanted to believe what he was hearing. “Do you really think so?”

“Sure,” Fusco said with only-slightly-forced cheer. “Sure. We talked some, in town. I think John and me, we're on the same page now. Or you know, at least... the same... book.”

“That would be nice, if so,” Mr. Finch said softly.

Fusco floundered around for the steering wheel of the conversation, because he had had something in mind when he'd started it, he'd hoped to segue nicely into it before getting derailed by Finch's apparent random guilt attack--  
  
“So, um, are we?” he asked, and Finch blinked.

“I'm sorry?”

“You and me, are _we_ on the same page?” Fusco thought that before his time in prison, he might not have been so blunt. But man, you wasted a year and change in stir, it gave you a certain impatience for some of the dancing around... “Because I get it, it's hard to not be a _little_ salty at someone after they hurt someone you, uh, care about, but I just-- I got the sense there's a little-- that maybe that's not entirely cleared between us. So...” He spread his empty palms towards Finch, like he was bundling all that up and tossing it Finch's way, _ball's in your court there, buddy._

Mr. Finch, Harold, gave him a long and distant look, the chair swiveled to fully face him now, his glasses still held in one hand before his face. After a while, or more likely about ten seconds, Finch smiled one of his small, crooked smiles.

“Lionel, you are not at all what I expected to hire,” he said, and that was one of those things you could take as an insult or a compliment, but he wasn't here looking for a fight.

“Square peg, round hole?” he joked instead. Finch smiled a little more, and stood up with a creak of chairsprings.

“If I have been-- salty, as you put it-- then... I'll try not to be,” Finch said as he put his glasses back on, picked up his tablet. “I'm-- happy you're here, Lionel, truly. You've been a breath of fresh air. As for square pegs and round holes...”

He limped for the office door, which meant also towards Lionel, and he stopped in front of him, reached out a hand for a kinda-clumsy pat of Lionel's shoulder. Clumsy, because Finch didn't seem quite sure where he was putting his hand, exactly, and wound up getting Fusco's ear-and-neck-and-shoulder in the gesture, a little flutter of cool fingers against his skin. They finally settled on his shoulder for a squeeze before retreating. Fusco blinked.

“...we'll make it work,” said Finch, as if that were nothing out of the ordinary right there, and he shuffled out of the room with the tablet at his chest.


End file.
